


Enlightenment

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Knotting, M/M, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared Padalecki is a college freshman with a lot to learn about <i>everything</i>. He's got awesome friends like Genevieve and Jensen to help, and a kinda sort-of mentor in Professor Collins, who smells too good to be true (and may possibly hate him a little for some reason). Who knew this Alpha/Beta/Omega stuff was so complicated??</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enlightenment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 sassy_minibang. Features professor/student relationship (Jared is 18/19); Alpha/Omega dynamics; human knotting; some homophobic behaviour from Jared’s family members; shy, clueless Jared; some possibly disturbing discussion of consent issues. Main art by [](http://deadflowers5.livejournal.com/profile)[**deadflowers5.**](http://deadflowers5.livejournal.com/) Art at end by [](http://lifelesslyndsey.livejournal.com/profile)[**lifelesslyndsey.**](http://lifelesslyndsey.livejournal.com/) Beta'd by [](http://vee_dub.livejournal.com/profile)[**vee_dub**](http://vee_dub.livejournal.com/), [](http://kototyph.livejournal.com/profile)[**kototyph**](http://kototyph.livejournal.com/), and [](http://nix_this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix_this.livejournal.com/). Thanks muchly!

The most beautiful professor in the world hates him on sight. Jared senses it, a shimmering wall of cold grey dislike sprung up between them, casting a pall over his long-anticipated first day as a college freshman. The death-glare is also a clue. He sinks, wet and bedraggled from the unexpected rain—California has betrayed him already!—into a seat by a dainty, jasmine-scented brunette, and tries to look invisible. Which is difficult when you’re pushing 6’3” and still growing. But he _tries_.

The girl clucks her tongue, and Jared flinches. But she’s only trying to get his attention to pass along the stack of syllabi. He smiles, feeling it come out more sheepish than the uncomplicated gratitude he intended, takes one, and passes the rest back.

“Well,” says Beautiful Professor, “that was hopefully the last of our inconsiderately late arrivals this morning. Let’s get going, shall we?” He rubs his hands together as if he can’t think of anything less humdrum than his start-of-semester general course infodump. Maybe he can’t. Perhaps he’s new, and it’s all a bit exciting still?

It isn’t bad. There are jokes in his how-not-to-be-a-plagiarist lecture. Professor Collins—who says they can call him Misha, but only when the dean’s not around—claims to think that plagiarists should be strung up from the ceiling by their choice of toes, tonsils, testicles, or thyroids. “Obviously, this gives you ladies an out,” he says, and bats his eyelashes at the room at large. “And also anyone who’s had to have their thyroid surgically removed.” He clutches briefly at his neck, as if unconsciously. “So, in short, don’t do it, okay? Cite your sources and write your own shit. Imagine how much I love working late nights reading your drivel. Now imagine how furious I’ll be if I find it’s not even _your_ drivel.” He straightens his shoulders, drops the smile completely, and is for a moment quite possibly the scariest human being Jared’s ever seen in his life. Well, except Grandpa, but he’s definitely the scariest person Jared’s seen in California.

Then there are general housekeeping matters. Office hours. Due dates. The lack of a TA for the course. Text availability (“yes, I know the campus bookshop hasn’t ordered enough copies. Call me if you haven’t managed to track down the set texts, say, three days before the relevant class? That way you’ll have time to read the things if I’m able to hook you up. Ooh, kinda made myself sound like a drug dealer there. That’s always awesome for one’s academic career. Moving on…”). Course aims. Questions--someone always has questions. Typically Misha points out that the answers are in the syllabus. Jared just sort of drifts through that part. Misha spends the last twenty minutes holding forth on the subject of last night’s _Grey’s Anatomy_ and how it can be understood as part of a serial in much the same way as any given chapter of a Dickens novel.

Jared’s kind of annoyed when the time’s up, and not just because the professor is beautiful and kinda nice to listen to. He’s actually interested in the content of the lecture, in what Misha Collins has to _say_. He’s more excited about taking this class than the others he’s had so far.

“I’m Genevieve,” the brunette says, as he’s getting to his feet. “Buy me lunch?”

Jared freezes in the process of stuffing things into his bag.

She looks at him, obviously confused, for several long moments. Then a slow smile spreads across her pretty face. “Man, I sure know how to pick ‘em. You’re either a virgin or you like boys.”

Jared winces.

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Both? Honey, that’s okay.” Her hand finds his bicep, squeezes. Jared remembers to finish straightening up. He’s, like, a yard taller than her. She’s _tiny_. He wonders how she gets her strawberry-red lipstick quite that perfect. “You got a name?”

“Jared.” He clears his throat. “Jared Padalecki.”

“Okay, Jared. Could you eat?”

He consults his stomach, gives a wary nod.

“Wonderful. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch, and we can discuss how dreamy Professor Misha turned out to be.”

Jared’s roommate is a guy called Terry who just transferred in from Michigan, and once they’ve had their initial argument (“Dude, you have to _apply_ specially for those extra-long beds, they don’t just magically appear. I applied. And what the hell would you need it for, anyway? You’re, what, 5’6”?”) they settle into a sort of comfortable cold war scenario. It’s a Quiet Dorm, so hopefully Jared won’t need to be spending late nights in the library all the time just to get his homework done.

He misses his Momma’s cooking, and the sounds of his big brother knocking about the place, but he doesn’t miss small town life or the way everyone used to look at him back home. No one seems to be whispering behind his back here. No one scolds him during those rare moments where he catches a whiff of something _wonderful_ and kinda zones out there for a while. Not that he ever understood why his Mom took such exception to a bit of daydreaming here and there. Not like it was hurting anyone.

Jared’s biology class looks like mostly a repeat of high school biology but with more detail, except for the biochem section which is mostly new and frightening. He makes a mental note to allow himself extra study time for that subject when they reach that portion of the semester. Psychology is run by a drill-sergeant type he’s not convinced isn’t going to suck all possible joy out of the subject with his rigid lecturing style and his tendency towards off-topic rants. Jared’s statistics professor has a sense of humour, so that seems like it should be some fun. But it’s Misha Collins’s Literature Survey class that most appeals to him. The set texts are varied and interesting, and the chance to argue about novels and poetry with people who’ve actually _chosen_ to take the subject—many of them not freshman—is awesome, too. His AP classes counted for something there, and also got him out of freshman comp which he’s heard is a lot of busy work and mostly stuff everyone should already know.

Misha isn’t actually his most gorgeous professor, it turns out. That would be the adjunct-professor from psych, McGivers. She’s hot as Hades, worthy of a swimwear catalogue somewhere. But he’s pretty sure Misha’s prettier, and it’s Misha Collins who sticks in his mind, Misha he can’t stop thinking about. Somehow, Misha made being wet and late for class and sneered at seem completely worth it.

Jared sighs, sinking gratefully into his bed at the end of a long day. He made it. He’s here, in college, in the big city, away from small town Texas. He’s free.

Professor Collins calls on Jared relentlessly throughout their class on Raymond Chandler (Genevieve keeps looking between them, her eyes widening as class goes on. So it’s not just his imagination). Most of Jared’s concentration goes to answering the questions, listening, trying to anticipate what might come next. Plus, you know, feeling aggrieved and hard done by. But he still notices that Misha doesn’t seem to grill the slacker kids the same way. Or the smart ones. So he doesn’t seem to be punishing Jared for some perceived lack of attention or hard work, and he doesn’t seem to be trying to nudge him into genius. So what gives? Is he actually trying to drive him into dropping the class?

Fuck that. Jared Padalecki doesn’t give up that easy. As soon as he gets back to his dorm tonight, he’s going to hit the books so hard they’ll be moaning about it for days.

_Teacher, you just got yourself a pet._

He meets Jensen when he’s called in to the campus medical centre one day for a follow-up to his initial insurance-related physical there. This tall, green-eyed guy with awesome hair is perched on the edge of the desk in the exam room he’s directed to, and Jared naturally assumes he’s the doctor and offers his hand.

“I’m Jensen,” the guy says, peering oddly at Jared as he shakes his hand. “I’m just a student here, playing chaperone today. Don’t worry, I’ll sit in the corner and keep quiet.”

Jared shrugs and smiles, confused. 

Things make a little more sense when the doctor comes in and turns out to be tiny, and beautiful, and definitely the sort of person who might be legitimately intimidated by a guy his size. He greets her warmly as Jensen slinks off into the background.

“I’m Doctor Molloy,” she says. “I’ve just been asked to do a few follow-up checks. I don’t need you to change into a gown, but if you could take off your shirt and your footwear and hop up on the examination table, that’d be lovely.”

He goes. She politely doesn’t watch as he removes the specified articles, but when he’s ready she comes over, listens to his heart and lungs, taps on his knees and scrapes his soles to check his reflexes, shines a light into his eyes, makes him follow her moving fingers with his gaze, then takes some measurements.

“If you’re curious,” she says, winding her stethoscope more securely back around her neck, “I think you’ve got a little more growing to do yet. You’re about six foot two, six foot three?”

He nods.

“You might _just_ make it to six foot five, but that ought to be it.”

“Phew,” he says, and means it.

Her smile’s a little wry, and Jared briefly contemplates whether it’s suckier to be super-tall or super-short. The doctor never has to worry about banging her head on things or having to hunch down to get her hair under the shower spray, but there must be loads of ordinary things she can’t easily reach, too. 

“You can pop your clothes back on again now, then come and join me at the desk.”

There isn’t really much to say after that, apparently, and he’s not really sure why they bothered calling him in. She makes a few notes, gives him the results of the various tests on the blood that was drawn the last time he was in, all of which sound perfectly normal and boring to him. Then she asks him about his sex life.

“Uh, what sex life?” Jared says, wincing when it comes out genuinely baffled rather than blasé or droll.

“You’re not sexually active?”

“Still got my V-card,” he says, too brightly, and makes an embarrassed noise as he feels the heat start to rise up his neck.

 

“Would you like me to write a prescription for prophylactics just in case?”

Oh, God, no. A note from a doctor entitling him to a pocket full of condoms would torment him, he’s sure. Not to mention the part where he’d have to go and _fill_ the prescription. “Um, no thanks, doc. But I know where you guys are if anything, uh, changes.”

“Okay,” she says, smiling once more. “The only other thing is your potassium. It’s a teeny bit low. Please eat a banana at your next opportunity.”

He blinks. That’s it? “Sure thing, ma’am.”

She’s on her feet then—not that it makes her much taller—and pointing him politely towards the door. “Nice meeting you, Jared. Take it easy, and have a great day.”

“You too,” he responds automatically, before wandering back out to reception.

He finds himself sharing the path that leads to the nearest cafeteria with Jensen, and smiles awkwardly his way. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Do you, um, get called on to do that often? The chaperone thing?”

For a moment, Jensen looks completely taken aback, which Jared can’t for the life of him figure out. Then he shakes his head slowly. “Not often, no. God, you sound like home. First time out of Texas?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, I’ll buy you lunch. The french fries are pretty bland, but I know where there’s excellent iced tea.”

Jared nods, smiles, then waits until Jensen’s looking away before letting out a long slow sigh of relief. He’s never truly understood the magical mechanism by which friends are made. But sometimes, without him even trying, it just happens. And hallelujah for that.

Jared tries to be cool when he steps onto an elevator only to realise he’s alone in the car with M--Professor Collins. “Hi,” he squeaks. _Professor Collins. He’s your professor, doofus._

He swallows. Prof--oh, damn it. _Misha_ smells so good...

“Hello, Jared,” Misha says pleasantly enough, though something in his demeanour warns not to get close. 

So Jared hangs out by the buttons and lets Misha have the back corner. But then they reach Misha’s floor, which isn’t Jared’s floor, so Misha has to walk past him and out. 

“Man, that aftershave is _amazing_ ,” Jared blurts, from nowhere, as his professor draws level.

Misha’s head turns sharply Jared’s way, and there’s something very like confusion writ large across his face. “Thank you,” he says, rather gruffly, and then he’s gone.

Jared’s left with the impression he did something wrong. Did Misha think he was hitting on him or something? Was he freaked? Maybe he’s straight and doesn’t like the thought of— _No_. Misha’s cool. Misha wouldn’t mind who hit on him. He mightn’t reciprocate, but he wouldn’t deny anyone their right to like and admire him, from a safe distance, Jared’s sure of it.

He can’t help it, Jared tells himself. He’s always noticed the way people smell. Like, to a weird degree. He’s been warned not to be obvious about it in case he causes offence. Apparently you’re not supposed to enjoy the tang of someone’s fresh, clean sweat, you’re not supposed to know whether that guy actually used the hand soap in the bathroom he just emerged from. You’re not supposed to know whether a baby is breast- or bottle-fed if you don’t see it feeding, and you’re certainly not supposed to be able to tell when a woman’s about to get her period—that, according to his friend Sandy from high school, is _even worse_ than being able to smell the blood itself when it comes. According to his Mom, who backed up Sandy’s claim with a twist of his ear and a night without dinner, this sort of knowledge is something he must _never_ speak about. So he tries not to mention it anymore, but he can’t help it if he has an acute sense of smell, can he? And since he can’t help it, surely it’s a good thing that he enjoys much of what he smells? It would kinda suck if the whole world was made up of intolerable stinks to him.

So he notices that Genevieve’s perfume smells like jasmine, but as she allows him closer for longer he also starts to catch the under-notes that are all her. Like spices and wild things growing in shaded corners of courtyards, night-blooming vines like white stars in the night. And something that is just her, that can’t be described in terms of anything else. One day perhaps he’ll meet someone and think that new person smells like Genevieve, but he’s sure he’ll never learn that her essential Genevieve-ness is actually an imitation of some other thing.

He gets used to his room-mate’s rather grungy, metallic scent—the one that lives under the daily anointment of Axe—pretty quick. It reminds him of muddy football shoes left out in the rain. Makes it easy to tell their towels and things apart if they get mixed up. (Their clothes, of course, can be distinguished at a glance on size alone. The one time Terry had the cheek to rifle Jared’s drawers for a clean pair of pajama pants, he’d tripped over the trailing hems and fallen on his ass. Jared’s sympathy had been somewhat muted, and Terry seemed to have learned his lesson.)

Now that he’s noticed Misha’s aftershave, he can’t _not_ notice it. Kinda makes stepping into that classroom twice a week extra wonderful. You know, before the part where Misha starts glaring at and picking on him. Although that’s cut down a lot as the semester’s worn on, the glaring. It’s usually more of a _peering_ now, as if Jared is something Misha can’t quite figure out. Genevieve sees it too, so it’s not like he’s imagining it. She thinks it’s because Misha _likes_ him, though, which is laughable, in Jared’s opinion. Who tries to show someone they like them that way, once the age for pulling pigtails has passed?

“You look beat,” Genevieve murmurs, as Jared slides into the seat beside her with two minutes to spare. “Late night?”

Something about the phrase triggers a yawn, and Jared hurries to cover it. “Had a bunch of lab reports to tidy up for psych, and my group for our stats project left me with most of the heavy lifting. Just got all that sorted out, and then my paper on Nabokov starts kicking my ass.”

“Misha has office hours this afternoon,” she points out. “You could go see him about it.”

Jared isn’t sure he wants to do that, to beard the lion in his den or whatever. But he is sure that he left home to succeed, at college, at life. He wants to succeed with this paper.

The guy with the mullet and the preppy sweater reappears again, brushes past Jared on his way down the hall.

“Next?” Misha calls.

Jared straightens his posture before reaching for the still-open door and slipping inside.

He gets an impression of a small office made even smaller by the weight of huge, over-stuffed bookshelves on the walls right and left, and Misha Collins sitting with his legs folded up like a kid on his office chair, facing him. He looks relaxed and open. Then he recognises Jared, his hands tighten on the arms of the chair, and his face goes curiously blank.

“Leave the door ajar, please,” he directs.

Which kinda stings given that both the students ahead of Jared in line were allowed to shut the door. But he complies, hard copy draft of his paper rustling in his hand as he does.

“It’s Padalecki, right?” Misha says, almost—almost—conversationally, as Jared takes the seat he indicates. “Jared Padalecki?”

It’s still an effort not to answer such questions with _yes, sir_ , but California is gradually breaking him of the habit. “That’s me.”

“What can I help you with?”

Jared waves his draft. “I kinda got halfway through this, and then it started going someplace I didn’t expect. And now I feel like I’m out on a limb, miles away from what the experts have written.” He frowns. “Maybe I should start again?’

“Gimme,” Misha, says, and makes grabby hands. But Jared’s too slow to move, apparently, because Misha leans forward and plucks the draft out of his hands, then straightens, already shoving reading glasses onto his face one-handed. He looks really fucking cute in them, Jared can’t help but notice. Hard not to imagine him up late at night, grading papers, feet bare beneath his frayed jeans, shirt sleeves rolled up, face scruffier than it is now, those glasses framing rather than hiding his beautiful blue eyes… He’d smell like this, kind of… kind of perfect, really… almost edible…

“If you could avoid drooling on the carpet,” Misha says dryly, without looking up from his reading, and Jared jumps.

Is he that obvious? _How_ is he that obvious? 

Not fair. He feels the blush rising up from his chest and hates it. Focuses his attention instead on the room, with its gazillion books and its dozens of small, strange statuettes that might be souvenirs of far-off lands. And there, that must be Misha’s graduation picture. It shows him, younger and cleaner-cut, in full academic regalia. But he’s in front of a tree, wearing a bright red clown’s nose, grinning, photographed mid-jump high off the ground. It’s completely awesome. Much more so than the weirdly sepia-toned oil painting of someone who might or might not be Shakespeare which has been--presumably for lack of wall space--stuck to the ceiling.

“Okay,” Misha says, when he’s done, leaning back in his chair and looking Jared in the eye. “The thing you have to understand is that _Lolita_ is an ink blot. It’s a Rorsharch Test—a Rorsharch _text_ , if you will. It changes between readings, between readers. There is no one right way to take it. There are plenty of wrong ones, but the question in our field is always _what evidence can you bring to support your claims?_ You seem, so far, to be supporting your argument just fine. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t found any notable scholars to back your reading of the text, because this assignment asks specifically about _your_ reading of the text. So, while I can see why you’re uncomfortable, I’m interested in what you have to say here and I hope you’ll finish it. But I can help you get back to boring bland generic unremarkability if that’s what you’d like.” 

He takes off the glasses, and his eyes twinkle. For a moment, it’s like Jared can’t even breathe.

“You’ve got a bunch of typos in here still and you haven’t got the citation scheme quite right, but it’s a draft and I assume you’ll address those issues.”

Jared nods. “So I can—?” he waves uselessly at his half-written paper.

“Jared, you could argue that this entire novel is an allegory about--” he waves a hand about in a grandiose manner, like some Renaissance maestro attempting to call down Inspiration “--the effects of lunar cycles on homosexual relationships among the antarctic penguin population, if you like. You just gotta be able to support the argument. So far, you’re supporting yours.” He hands the papers back. “Now, do you want help to make it safer and blander, or are you going to give in and let instinct guide you?”

Jared smiles. Misha’s grin shows teeth.

“I think I’ll stick with the moonstruck penguins, see what happens.”

It’s surprisingly hard to leave the little office, almost as if it’s warm in there and bitterly cold outside. But he manages to say a few words of thanks and farewell to Misha and then to force himself back out into the world.

He’s oddly jealous of the next student waiting in the corridor to see Misha, but he’d be a creeper to stand around listening at the door so he pushes on. He has a paper to finish, a professor to impress.

Jensen teaches him to smoke a joint, to tab up a textbook with those little Post-It flag things so you can find what you need in a hurry, and to use some of the least-loved machines in the campus gym so you can get a great workout without ever having to wait. Some mornings they even go running together while the rest of the campus is still yawning and slapping the ‘snooze’ button. He’s easy to be around, he feels familiar and safe and yet full of fresh new surprises. Jared’s pretty sure Genevieve thinks they’re dating, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Jared hasn’t enjoyed this kind of simple, uncomplicated hanging out with someone since before puberty, when he inexplicably became persona-non-grata at school. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve an awesome friend like Jensen, but he hopes he _keeps_ deserving him.

Jared gets an A- on the Nabokov paper, but he’s more excited by the sight of the copious pencil comments filling up virtually every margin and gap between paragraphs. He’s glad Misha waited until the end of class to hand their work back, because he would not have been able to concentrate with these goodies in hand.

And, yeah, he knows there’s no denying anymore that he kinda sorta has a teeny weeny crush on his professor.

Just a little one.

 _Fuck_.

Genevieve sighs, amused, watching him sit right there at his desk while the next class is filing in, poring over the little scrawled notes on his essay. She takes the opportunity afforded by her standing while he’s sitting to kiss the top of his head. Then she grabs up his bag, seizes him by the hand, and drags him out before he has a chance to object.

The dragging continues. There is a mall, and shopping. Genevieve claims to need a birthday gift for an especially lanky cousin, and makes Jared try on lots of awful Fair Isle pullovers so she can get an idea what they’d look like on her cousin. (He’s not entirely sure he believes her. Not after she makes _him_ buy the one she likes best. And apparently expects him to wear it in the future. Parts of it are very, very pink. Whatever, he can totally rock it.) After this adventure, they head on down to the food court, where he sucks down burgers and fries and she daintily eats sushi.

“So,” she says, when they’re done eating and she’s leaning back in her chair cradling a latte in both hands, “the thing with Jensen isn’t enough to distract you from the lovely Misha, huh?”

“The thing with Jensen is all in your head.”

“And the thing with Misha?”

“Are, uh, my genuine unrequited lustful feelings showing through?”

“Hrmm,” she says. “I wonder whether our school has any specific regulations on faculty-student relationships?”

His jaw drops. She can’t be serious.

It’s just one of those unfortunate things that come part and parcel of being Jared Padalecki, he supposes, that when his gloriously beautiful professor happens to come across him actually in the library reading a book, it’s not a course book. Some sixth sense has Jared looking up to see that Misha’s just entered the floor he’s on, and instead of waving, Misha comes over to say hi. (A virtual airshow of butterflies starts up in Jared’s stomach as he watches the man pad silently across all those acres of carpet, past all those other students, many of them chatting, few of them actually working, towards him.)

“Hello, Jared. Glad to see that at least one of my students actually managed to locate the library this semester.” He beams, and Jared mumbles out something about how he _loves_ the library.

Then Misha’s gaze falls on the book he’s reading, and Jared’s not quick enough to dump it down to hide the cover. He sees the man’s eyebrows ratchet up as he reads:

_Where do I fit? A self-help guide._

Jared feels his blush starting even before Misha’s hands come out to turn the pile of books at Jared’s elbow so the spines face him. His mouth moves as he reads. Jared doesn’t recall all of the titles, but they’re all kinda like the one he’s reading now. Things he hopes might help him figure some stuff out. Understand why he never seems to fit in anywhere, why he so often feels as if there’s something important folks aren’t telling him. Why his Mom felt the need to stage-manage his life back home so completely. Why she’s so upset that he applied to college out of state. And, um, yeah, there’s a few books about the gay thing too. He might not be _confused_ about that, exactly, but reading about other people’s experiences with understanding themselves, with coming out, with burning bridges as well as building them, helps him feel less alone in life. Less unique.

“Well,” Misha says, shuffling his feet, “I’ll leave you to your reading.” His smile seems forced, but Jared can’t read him, can’t decide whether it’s embarrassment or something else that has leached away all that faintly smug Misha happiness to leave bland Misha friendliness. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

His eyes twinkle, and something in Jared relaxes. “Don’t worry, I only read what isn’t nailed down.”

The hand on his shoulder is there and squeezing and gone. “Ah. In that case, it’s pointless to warn you not to read anything I wouldn’t read.” And he’s gone before Jared can quite work that one out.

Genevieve takes Jared out to the movies. He’s confused as to why she insists that Jensen comes too, because those two don’t get along all that great. (Jared suspects this is because they’re straight people of different sexes who both believe they’re hot stuff, so they’re each offended that the other isn’t interested in dating them. But he is the last person who should interfere, given his complete lack of relationship experience and the fact that that whole sphere of human social interaction is pretty much baffling to him.)

Anyway, he sits in the darkened theatre between Jensen, who has popcorn, and Genevieve, who has Skittles, and is grateful he grabbed three straws for his enormous Coke when the other two keep begging for a sip. He’s glad he’s not the kind of person who gets all worried about germs, because that? Is not normal behaviour right there.

The movie makes no sense.

There are these two guys, and they both want the same girl. They do all kinds of stupid things to impress her, trying to one-up each other. It seems to put the girl off, and really Jared thinks the best possible ending would be for the two guys to get together—they’re pretty much perfect for each other, they have the same taste, they think the same way, they have this friendly competition vibe going that he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one reading as sexual tension…

“Why don’t they just set her up with Roger’s brother and then damn well get a room?” he demands, as the second guy embarks on his scheme to destroy the first guy’s—his best friend’s—attempt at an uber-romantic marriage proposal.

Genevieve makes a flabbergasted noise.

Jensen relieves him of what’s left of his Coke. “Think you’ve had enough, buddy.”

No one explains anything, the movie ends stupidly, and Jared’s left none the wiser.

On the plus side, Genevieve and Jensen seem to be successfully bonding over his alleged cluelessness.

“Jared,” Misha says, without turning, “you’re following me.”

That brings Jared up short. He looks around. He’d been heading to the main department office to—to—

But now he’s halfway out of the department, in a corridor he’s never used before, right behind his professor like he’s about to trip over the guy. How did that—?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“Sure you don’t,” Misha says, and it’s almost possible to hear his eyes roll. Then something changes, and he turns, peers curiously into Jared’s face. “Say that again?”

“I, uh, don’t know how it happened,” Jared repeats miserably. “I just—I was going there—” he gestures vaguely “—and now I’m here. Must have been daydreaming or something? I do that. Momma always used to scold me for it.”

Misha draws in an audible breath, lets it out slowly through his teeth. “Jared,” he begins cautiously, “you do understand about Alphas and Betas and Omegas, right?”

Jared blinks. Isn’t that kind of a rude question? “Yeah, I think so.”

“And you know which one you are?”

He nods. He’s known for as long as he can remember. Even though it was kind of a dirty word back home, and no one ever seemed to _say_ it, they always managed to get the message across.

Misha looks around, seems to be waiting for a pair of chattering students to pass out of sight. “And you know which one I am?” he presses.

Jared frowns. “A Beta, I guess?”

Misha shuts his eyes a moment with a _Lord, give me strength_ look that makes Jared wonder what on Earth he’s done wrong. “You think. Can’t you _tell_?”

He’s starting to blush, he can feel it. “Well, uh, I’ve only ever met Betas. I mean, as far as I know. Most people are Betas, right? So I’m not sure I could tell the difference.”

For some reason, that makes Misha reach for the nearest wall and mime beating his head against it several times. When he completes the little performance, he’s grinning kinda wryly, shaking his head. “Okay. Clearly we need to talk about this. But now isn’t the time and here isn’t the place. Did I hear right, that you’re best buddies with the unforgettable Jensen Ackles of the soulful green eyes?”

Jared smiles. “Yeah. He’s awesome.”

Misha is handing him a business card. “Talk to him. I’d like to meet you both some time for coffee and uncomfortable conversation.”

“Okay,” Jared says, “sure.” He guesses with Jensen being there, no one can think it’s anything improper, like a date. That makes sense. “Uh, have a great day, okay? I’ll try to stop being a creeper.”

“I’ll give you a hand with that,” Misha says, beaming. And he takes Jared by the arm and shoulder, turns him bodily around, and gives him a little push. Jared laughs and goes obediently on his way.

They meet in a bookshop which has been more or less taken over by a Starbucks clone, Misha bounding in two minutes after Jared and Jensen arrive and joining them at their little table. His old and faded black jeans fit him to perfection, and his plaid over-shirt looks soft and inviting to the touch. “Jensen,” he says, offering his hand.

Jensen smiles that dazzling smile. “The mellifluous Misha.”

“One and only.” He retracts his hand, doesn’t offer it to Jared. “Hi, Jared. Don’t look so nervous. I’m gonna go grab us some caffeinated nectar of the gods. What’ll you have?”

In the face of that eager, honest interest in his drink preferences, Jared promptly forgets everything he read on the menu board as he came in. “Uh, an Americano or something’s fine. I’m easy.” 

Jensen requests a complicated half-this-half-that-with-hazelnut concoction, and offers money which Misha waves away.

So they sit a little longer waiting for Misha to return from the counter, and Jared tries to work out why he’s so nervous.

The world’s most beautiful professor returns with sweet, indulgent pastries, which shows him to be wise and generous and otherwise perfect. Jared munches happily in the companionable silence until their drinks arrive and the staffer leaves. There’s a marshmallow floating in Misha’s cup, and he pokes at it idly before hoisting one colourful sneaker-clad foot onto the opposite knee and leaning forward. “So, Jared,” he says. “You’re an Alpha. The only one I’ve ever met in academic life. The only one in the student body. There’s some truth in the stereotypes about Alphas not being academically inclined, but clearly you are, and I’ve accepted that you are actually a genuine student and not some kind of infiltrating Alpha ninja bent on conquest.”

Jared nods, more puzzled than anything, and takes a sip of his still over-hot coffee, unsure what to say. He’s never heard anyone refer so casually, so easily, to what he is, as if it wasn’t a dirty word. As if acknowledging the elephant in the room didn’t sully the speaker at all.

Misha’s smile is friendly, if a little tight. “Forgive me if I’m stating the obvious at any point here, but it seems to me that… you’ve led a somewhat sheltered life and don’t actually know a lot of the basics. Like how to use your nose.” He pauses for a deep breath, smiles a quirky little smile. “I’m an Omega, Jared. And it isn’t my aftershave you like so much.”

Jared instantly wishes he wasn’t holding his coffee cup, because it isn’t big enough to hide behind and he’d need his hands free to cover his face. Then his body starts trying to choke on air, and he can feel from the heat that his face and neck are turning red. Jensen’s hand on his back, stroking in slow, soothing motions, helps calm him, though, and he lets his friend take his cup and set it safely back down on the table.

“I don’t want to press you about what your upbringing was like that you can be eighteen years old and so ignorant—” Misha appears to notice Jared’s wince “—sorry, but it’s true. And frankly, I think that’s a dangerous situation. You don’t know your own power, I think. I doubt you know how much influence your scent can have on Omegas, let alone how to _stop_ that influence. And like an unsocialised puppy, we don’t know how you might react in certain potential powder keg scenarios.”

Pieces are fitting themselves together in Jared’s mind. Pieces he hadn’t even realised needed to be fitted together. “You weren’t playing chaperone at the medical clinic because the doctor was tiny,” he tells Jensen slowly. “It was because I’m Alpha?”

“Uh huh.”

“Jensen’s one of our unsung heroes around here,” Misha puts in. “The Omegas’ honour guard, if you will.”

“There’s a sort of assumption that Alphas are more likely than most to be uncooperative and maybe violent,” Jensen says, his tone perfectly neutral as if he has no personal opinion on the subject whatsoever. _Should have been an actor_ , Jared thinks.

Misha shifts in his chair. “So, while campus security can’t just go preventing all Alphas from visiting the campus--especially since we invite the general public in on various occasions, free clinics so our optometry students can practice giving eye exams and that kind of thing--they _can_ quietly arrange to have a big, strong, scent-aware Beta like Jensen around where there are Alphas. Or send ‘em to sit in the front row of every gloriously handsome Omega professor's class in case of trouble.”

“But that doctor wasn’t Omega.” Jared’s sure of it now, even if he never really gave it any thought at the time.

“No, just concerned at how you might react to the necessary invasion of personal space, you know? And not everyone has the knack for scenting a bad situation brewing and calming it down.” He shrugs, Jared feels it transmitted through the hand still stroking his back. “We’re all carefully trained and screened and sworn to uphold privacy laws, of course.”

“This is--this is a lot to take in, guys. It’s like--” But he doesn’t know what it’s like. Maybe like finding out all at once that he’s a little grey man from another planet _and_ that the FBI has a special task-force working every day to track down little grey men from other planets? _Come on, Jay, persecution complex much?_

“I was going to recommend some form of counselling to help you deal with all this,” Misha says gently, “and I do think you should consider it. But any counsellor you were assigned would be a Beta, and I think you could use some information and advice from someone who actually has to deal with the same things you do. So what I’d like to do, Jared, is put you in contact with one of my Alpha friends. You could chat over the phone and by email. Talk about what it means to be Alpha in modern society, how to cope with any antisocial urges you might have, that kind of stuff.” He pauses, loses a battle with a small smile. “Things that go beyond the antisocial urges common to students, of course.” He gives an oddly nostalgic sigh before straightening up in his seat once more, back to business.. “You’d just need to understand that, since you’re both Alpha, if you ever meet in person you might find you don’t get on. Instinct can be stronger than you might believe, and Alphas often seem to butt heads even when there’s nothing territorial at stake.”

“Okay,” Jared says. Hey, he likes people, and it’s something of a relief that he’s not just being handed _another_ extensive reading list, you know? “Who’s your friend?”

The face on Mark Sheppard’s business card is sleek and handsome and it’s oddly difficult to guess his age. The card describes him as a broker, but doesn’t say of what. Jared sighs, enters the number into his cellphone, then flops onto his back, lets his head tip backwards off the end of the bed, hits Call and presses his cell to his ear.

“Sheppard,” comes a gruff voice after three rings.

“Hello,” Jared says. “My name’s Jared Padalecki. I think Misha told you I might be calling?”

A pause. Rustling. “That he did. Hello, Jared. Nice to hear from you.”

“You’re English,” he realises.

“Guilty as charged. London, born and raised. Now, you have ten glorious minutes of my time before my dinner needs my attention. No question is too foolish. Fire away.”

The thing is, it’s hard to formulate questions to find out the things you don’t know you don’t know. Jared chews his lip. “Misha seemed surprised that I didn’t know he was—was—”

“Omega,” Mark says firmly, and Jared tenses. “Might as well say it.”

“I was brought up to think that was rude.”

“Get over it.”

Jared relaxes his body with an effort. “Okay. Misha seemed surprised that I didn’t know he was Omega. Is the scent that unmistakeable?”

“Mmm,” Mark says, more than half purr. “Like the smell of fresh baked bread, it gets to you. Can’t miss it. I’ll bet Misha smelled pretty bloody good to you, you just didn’t know why.”

“Yeah. I complimented him on his aftershave.”

There’s a pause while Mark laughs, but Jared feels oddly uninsulted. “Okay,” Mark says. “I begin to see the scope of the problem. Short-hand version. Anyone you hate on sight, anyone you instantly fear or loathe or just inexplicably expect to cause trouble, you’re probably scenting a fellow Alpha. It’s not always like that, of course. Sometimes you’ll meet and recognise a fellow Alpha and you’ll feel a sort of instant respect instead. But you’ll still notice him or her in a way that you’d never notice a Beta. Now, Omegas. They smell good, obviously. You’ll want to like them, want to protect them. Some of them will smell more inviting than others, but you’ll pretty much always want to get close enough to smell more. Anyone you meet and instantly like? Probably an Omega. We’re all human, of course, so inevitably some of them are complete pricks. But you’ll still grudgingly like them, still feel like their safety is your business.”

“Oh,” Jared says. And then, because Mark seems like he’s willing to listen, he offers his thoughts. “I was late for the first class, and I got the definite impression that Misha hated me on sight. But I still really liked him and wanted to stay. And when I think about it, that seems kinda weird—shouldn’t I dislike someone who openly disliked me?”

“I’d guess that you passed by him just close enough to scent him. The Alpha thing in you understands these things, even if your intelligent man-brain doesn’t.” A pause. “He’s sweet, isn’t he? Don’t you just want to—” Mark cuts himself off with a groan. “ _Not_ an appropriate topic yet. I’ll bet you have no idea what it is you want to do with him.”

“Just get close,” Jared whispers. “He caught me following him around the other day. Didn’t even know I was doing it.”

“Ah. Well, hopefully that will stop, when you learn to recognise consciously when you’ve scented an Omega. You know, when I was your age…” And he starts into a surprisingly cute and wholesome story about a girl in a short skirt and knee-high boots he met in his youth that takes up all the time until a buzzer sounds and he has to go check on his dinner.

Jared’s left feeling warm like he’s made a friend, though he hasn’t forgotten Misha’s warning that they might hate each other on sight. Well, scent.

Mom’s acting really weird when Jared next calls home, wanting to hear every tiny little detail about where he’s staying, what his classes are like, who his friends are. There’s an odd edge to some of her questions that doesn’t strike him as normal over-protective parental behaviour. But, hey, it’s the first time he’s been away from home for something more than a school trip, like, _ever_ , so she totally gets a pass for a small freakout, in his book.

“Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m doing great. Promise.”

“Oh, my poor Jay,” Genevieve says, enveloping him in one of her typically forceful bear-hugs. “Your family really dropped the ball on that one. You must have been so confused, growing up.”

“Isn’t everyone?” he replies, pulling a face. But it’s not the same, and they both know it. Regular people wonder who they are and where they fit it in the world, worry over what they’re supposed to be when they grow up and whether they _really_ need to pass math; they don’t spend years convinced that everyone is judging them and they don’t know why.

Genevieve’s hair is soft brown satin between his fingertips, and he plays idly with it as he enjoys the embrace.

“So, now you’re doing Alpha Studies 101 by distance learning, huh?” 

“Something like that.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.” She gives him one more squeeze, then releases him. “You wanna hit up that cute little coffee cart on the way to class?”

“Your scent—your pheromones—can do things,” Jensen explains, one night while they’re cuddling up on his big bed after a session of study and mild drinking. “Like right now, you’re putting out this field of… happy calm, because you’re calm and happy. That would tend to make any Omega in the vicinity feel that way too. It’s kinda contagious. Like yawning, I guess. But Betas, most of them? Won’t even notice. Some will, like me, but not really be _affected_ by it.” He yawns. “People forget, sometimes, when they’re freaking out about how Alpha pheromones can be used for seduction and worse, that it’s a whole big—” he gestures vaguely “—thing, a whole big continuum of influences. So you tend to make people horny when you’re horny, but you also tend to make them happy when you’re happy. Is one necessarily more intrusive than the other? Where people get rightly upset, you ask me, is when Alphas go a step beyond and deliberately set out to influence someone. Where it suits you to have some Omega be nice to you, or trust you, or _want_ you, so you make that happen. You get it?”

Jared’s not sure he does. “You can smell when I’m happy?”

“A little. Not as well as you guys. And the subtler the emotion, the harder it is for me to catch. You’re feeling slightly irritated, or a little bored? I won’t pick up on that, not from your scent. But if you were getting frustrated or angry, on your way to Alphing up? I’d know.”

“Alphing up?” Jared repeats.

Jensen goes briefly still. “Uh, something to ask that Mark guy about, okay? ASAP.”

Jared gets the distinct feeling he might not like the answer.

Schoolwork actually becomes a relief, a way to escape thinking about himself and What He Is for a while. He speaks up a lot more in class, asks questions, gets involved in debates, because it’s nice to talk about something that isn't himself, and it’s nice to know some of the answers for a change. Except That One class, of course, because Misha is—no, because _knowing_ Misha is Omega somehow changes everything, even though nothing really changes. It’s like he can’t look away from the man now. Or, like he can’t not be aware of him. Wherever he goes in the room, and wherever Jared’s focus might be—on the notes he’s making, or the screen overhead where something’s being displayed, or on the kid on the far side of the aisle who’s speaking—he can never not be aware of Misha. Never not know roughly where he is, how near.

“You’ll get a better sense of perspective,” Mark tells him, “as you meet more Omegas. You’re just a little hung up on Misha because he’s… well, he’s something of a novelty in your life, isn’t he?”

“I dunno,” Jared replies. “I met a couple Omegas on campus, a brother and a sister. Just wanted to smother them in kisses and sniff them all over. But they were strangers and that would have been weird, so I just went on my way.”

“Well,” Mark says, sounding surprised. “Well, well.” Is that him scratching his head? “But it sounds like you did fine, no harm done. This old man envies your self-control.”

“But I didn’t _want_ to do anything, I dunno, harmful. Except maybe bear-hug them half to death. But I didn’t.”

“And you never felt the lines on your cheeks coming up? Like a blush, only more tingly and less spread out?”

“No. I’ve seen that in the mirror sometimes, though. When I’m angry, or… something.”

“Randiness will often do it too,” Mark says, voice warm with amusement, just as if he can read Jared’s mind right over the phone. “Or anything where you feel competitive, want to prove you’re top dog. And some people can call up the colours on demand. You might learn that, in time.”

Jared isn’t really sure what use that would be, but he doesn’t say so. “What’s, um… Jensen mentioned something called ‘Alphing up’?”

There’s a pause. Jared hears a rhythmic tapping, like Mark’s drumming his fingers on a tabletop.

“Sometimes, when we get a bit cross, our Mister Hyde side can come out. Our inner Incredible Hulk, if you will. It gets difficult to reason with us, and we get extra strong and somewhat oblivious to pain. It’s mostly instinct. The worst of it is when an Alpha perceives a threat to a family member, particularly a child. The red cheek marks come up in full—you’ve probably not seen _that_ in the mirror—they look like welts. The behavioural change is something like being high on certain drugs I, of course—” he gives a delicate and obviously fake cough “—would know absolutely nothing about. People are very wary of any sign of an Alpha getting agitated because it’s so difficult to calm down someone who’s all Alphed up, it’s better just to clear the building and let him rail.”

Clear the _building?_ Wow. Scary. “Have you—?”

“Yeah. As a kid, and once in my twenties. Not my finest hour. Took up meditation after that. Learned about the magical mystical power of breathing right. Think it helped. But you seem pretty controlled already. Just be aware of your emotions, and if you’re angry and can’t control it, try to go somewhere you can be alone.”

Jared’s grateful for the simplicity of the explanation and the advice. If he’s honest, it’s actually a relief. If this is the big secret, if this is what makes people so weird about Alphas, what made so many people not want to be around him growing up… well, it’s not actually that bad, is it? So he has an in-built, genetically-determined anger management problem. And a sudden insight into why his mom was always so unforgiving about his childhood tantrums. So he’s a big strong bull who should probably avoid china shops. The news isn’t as frightening as the vague, half-formed nightmares it’s replacing.

“Thanks, Mark. I, uh—I need to go and think about this stuff.”

“Not surprised. I have a date tonight, but call anyway if you need to.”

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Have fun.”

A chuckle. “Will do.”

Somehow, Misha hears that Jared’s chosen to forgo a trip home for Thanksgiving in order to focus on study and paper writing, because he calls with a polite, though slightly guarded, invitation for Jared to attend a Thanksgiving gathering he’s hosting.

“It’ll be a good opportunity for you to mingle with other Alphas and Omegas,” Misha tells him over the phone. “That doesn’t mean you’ll necessarily _like_ it. But I think it’d do you good.”

“Socialising the puppy,” Jared says, and snickers.

Misha makes a sound like a whip cracking, then sobers. “There’ll be at least one vegetarian option, if that’s an issue.”

“Not an issue,” Jared hurries to assure him. “And I’d love to come. If you’re sure it won’t, you know, get you in trouble?” If he gets Misha in trouble, he damn well wants it to be for something more intense and out there than eating turkey and making smalltalk.

“If you accept, I’ll be disclosing as much to my supervisor. Letting her know that we’re developing a friendship. She may wish to have your remaining work for the semester checked to ensure I’m grading you fairly. It’ll be fine.”

 _Developing a friendship._ “I’ll be on my best behaviour,” he promises. “Wait, will Mark be there?”

“Depends if he’s in town. Probably. You up for meeting him?”

A little trepidation skims along his nerves. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Good,” Misha says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “I’m going to email the directions, okay? And you’re not to share my address with fellow students on pain of death…”

They’re shooting some hoops on the courts around the corner from Jensen’s apartment building, working up a sweat in the cool fall evening, when they’re approached by two guys wanting to join in. Jared feels the lines form on his cheeks as clearly as if they’d been slashed there with a blunt knife. _Alphas_. Adrenaline pumps through him, making his heart beat louder and faster. But, while he’s hyper-aware and restless at first scent, it’s not with any sort of murderous blood lust or rage. It’s more competitive and energetic.

Good. _Fun._

It’s a rough game, but not unduly so. Fiercely competitive, but that’s not just an Alpha thing because Jensen’s right there with them, giving them hell. It’s anybody’s game, frankly, and by the time they call it quits no one can agree on the final score anyway. They grab sodas from the nearest vending machine and sit, sweating and panting and not really talking. Jared finds it hard to focus on anything besides how the two Alphas smell. It isn’t unpleasant, exactly, it’s just distinctive and difficult to ignore.

“Hey, man, you’re all right,” one of them tells Jared as they’re leaving. “And your friend is hot.” He smirks. “Take it easy.”

Jared’s not really sure what to say to that, so he just kinda smiles and waves awkwardly. 

Jensen laughs, and they bump shoulders. His nose screws up, somehow highlighting his freckles. “Man, you stink. Let’s get out of here.”

Misha’s wearing a Kiss the Chef apron over an obnoxious pink and purple sweater, and Jared has a hard time resisting the invitation.

“Hi,” he says, and hands over his hostess gift. He has no access to proper kitchen facilities at school, so baking something yummy was out. (His inability to produce anything that actually resembles the picture in the recipe book would have given him pause even if his dorm _did_ feature a decent kitchen for the students to use. But everyone needs a jar jam-packed with colourful gummy worms, right?) “Am I late?”

“You’re perfect,” Misha says, smile twitching as he admires the jar. “Come in. Your coat goes in here—” he taps a closet door “—and you can keep the shoes on if they’re cleanish.”

Jared does as he’s directed, ignores how thoroughly the closet smells like intriguing strangers, then follows Misha deeper into the apartment. It’s not spacious, but it’s space well used, feels more efficient and less cluttered than the man’s English department office.

“Everyone,” Misha says, as they enter his crowded living room, and the murmur of voices falls away, “this is Jared, my skittish young fawn. Please do attempt not to traumatise him too deeply. And no corrupting his innocent lips with your demon drink! Mark, would you do the honours? I have to go and—as you would say—give a hot bird a good seeing-to.”

And there he is, Mark Sheppard, sleek and well-dressed, his close-cropped hair receding, rising smoothly from a chair. He comes close, his gait confident but not quite a stalk. Jared has at least six inches on him, but briefly feels the urge to back away nonetheless. “Jared,” he purrs.

And Jared’s body stops being entirely under his control, as if he’s slipping into some familiar, carefully choreographed and well-practiced dance routine. He holds his arms out to Mark, steps in to embrace him without meeting his eyes, bends awkwardly to offer his neck. It feels almost as intimate as a kiss. He hears Mark take a huge, loud sniff, nose pressed in close against his throat. The man himself smells like… gun powder and sunset, bitter chocolate and good grapes. There’s danger there, warning, but Jared doesn’t feel alarmed or combative. Then Mark is slapping his butt, stepping back, all good humour.

“You’re all right, kid.” He laughs. “Blooming huge, though. I had no idea!”

Jared ventures a smile. He wants to make some witty comeback, but the gift of language seems to have left him.

“Come on,” Mark says, taking his arm and turning, “let me introduce you to the gang.” He draws an unresisting Jared over to an armchair where a man about Mark’s age is sitting with a young, red-headed woman on his knee. “Sebastian, and Julie,” Mark says. “The famous Jared.” His hand slips up to the back of Jared’s neck, guiding him into bending down to offer his hand. Jared goes, gets a whiff of—

“Oh,” he says, blinking. He braces a hand on the back of the chair by the man’s--Sebastian’s--shoulder. It’s suddenly an effort not to zone out. “Are you—” he can feel his blush start up, low on his neck “—are you both—?”

“Omegas, yes,” Sebastian says, a little waspishly. 

But Julie reaches out, strokes a hand down Jared’s arm. “You’ll get the hang of it, sweetie.”

He wants to straighten up so he looks less ridiculous. Wants to go down on his knees so he’s less threatening. Wants to stay and talk with them forever. Wants to squash them together into a big hug, smooch them and lick them and keep them safe and warm. But he can’t really do any of those things. “I don’t make you want to run away or anything?” he says hopefully.

She giggles. “You smell a bit scared, actually. Honestly, we don’t bite. Well, Sebastian might, but only in private.”

He pinches her thigh for that. Jared’s unsure how to read the vibe between them.

“You just offered Mark here your neck, in full view of everyone,” Sebastian says, more gently now as if he’s taken pity on Jared. “That makes you officially less fearsome than he is, until further notice.”

“Oh,” Jared says, and frowns. “Thanks. I’m, uh, still learning this stuff.” Mark starts tugging him away, then, and he mimes his goodbyes.

Kurt is the first person Jared’s ever hated on sight. And it’s very clearly mutual. They just sort of stand there and bristle at each other, Jared actually having to lift his gaze slightly above the horizontal because the man is _tall_. And then Kurt starts _smirking_ like he knows some big important secret Jared doesn’t, and Jared just wants to smash that smug look off his smug face and—

“All right, children,” comes Mark’s calm voice, into the scratchy void where there is only blind, unthinking antagonism, “I think that’s enough for now.” 

Jared continues to stare at Kurt even as he’s being unceremoniously dragged away.

Mark pushes him down onto a couch between a couple of Beta women whose names fly out of Jared’s head almost as soon as he’s told them. They’re pretty, and nice, but they somehow just don’t seem that important in a room that smells like this, like a bakery full of oven-fresh bread and scary things. “That went well,” he mumbles, a wry quirk to his lips.

Mark taps his toe against Jared’s. “I told you, Alphas can butt heads, rile each other up. Doesn’t necessarily mean either of you is dangerous or a bad person, you just… instinctively don’t like the cut of each other’s jib. There’s no accounting for smell. You stay put, I’m going to bring some more people by to meet you.”

Jared nods, still a bit dazed by the whole Kurt thing. He _hates_ the guy. Without knowing one damn thing about him, he _hates_ someone. He’s a little disappointed in himself at that. It doesn’t seem like good manners.

“So, you’re a student?” the woman on his left asks him. “What are you studying?”

Jared lists off his classes, gets into a brief discussion about the merits of freshman psychology, but trails off when he senses Mark coming back through the little crowd with someone. And then there’s a man plopping down sideways on Jared’s lap. A nondescript man with a scruffy beard whom Jared finds it strangely difficult not to stare moony-eyed at.

“Richard,” he says, grinning. Then he tips his head, points theatrically at the side of his neck. “Sniff me?”

Jared looks to Mark, who shrugs. So that’s settled then. Jared leans in, fills his lungs with the scent of willing Omega. Moans, clutching helplessly at the man’s shirt. Because it’s heavenly, even though Richard smells somehow… married. It’s like his scent comes in Jared’s nose and then suffuses its magic throughout his whole body, making him shivery and warm and somehow _whole_. It’s the kind of slightly restless relaxation of lying on a beach beneath the warm sun, trying to decide if you have the energy for a quick dip in the sea.

“You like that, big boy? You smell pretty fine yourself, if you don’t mind me saying so. Uh, uh, uh, no biting now!”

Jared shuts his mouth, unsure when he’d opened it. But he’d definitely been grazing his teeth over Richard’s slightly salty skin. “Sorry,” he whispers, almost hoping even Richard won’t hear him. “Never been this close…” He pulls himself together. Pulls back, away from that tempting neck. Actually looks at his guest’s face. “This might be rude, but… I think something in your scent is telling me you’re taken? Married?”

Richard’s mouth quirks. “You see that great big lug over there in the suit?” He points. Jared thinks he’s pointing to a large bald man who looks completely at home in his sharp business suit. “Looks like he eats fools for breakfast, but is actually the biggest softest cuddliest teddy bear of a man you’ll ever meet? That’s Robert. We’ve been together two years.”

“He’s Alpha?” Jared can’t catch his scent from here—or, more precisely, can’t tease it out from the tangle of scents in the room—but it seems a reasonable guess.

“Yep. I like Betas just fine,” he says, and pauses to wink at the ladies, “but they just don’t dig me the way Alphas do.” He bats his eyelashes. “Who wouldn’t want that level of adoration?”

“Is he going to want to hurt me for this?” Jared wonders suddenly, gesturing between them.

Richard laughs. “If he had to beat up everyone I flirted with, it’d be a full time job. Not much time left for CEO-ing and conquering Wall Street.”

“All the same,” Mark says, reminding them both that he’s still there, hovering, “I’m about to bring him over, and perhaps it would be best if you weren’t plastered all over the boy when your Alpha gets here?”

Richard salutes. “Right you are, boss.” He springs up, stands over Jared instead.

Robert detours on the way over to grab a ladder-back chair, which he sets down in front of Jared’s couch and sits on. Offers his hand. “Hello, Jared, I’m Robert.”

Jared shakes. Smiles when no attempt is made to injure his hand or wrist. “Hi.” He’s strangely aware of his pulse all of a sudden, but he isn’t afraid.

“So,” Robert says, smiling as he releases Jared’s hand, “what are your career plans?”

Jared chokes on a laugh. “Man, it’s only my first semester, I’ve barely planned out what to sign up for next semester.”

Robert crosses his large thighs. “I’m a firm believer that a good solid business degree from a reputable school never hurt anyone. Not that _I_ have one, I never had much patience for sitting in classrooms. But a lot of my corporate minions are so equipped, and I have to say…”

Turns out he has quite a lot to say, but it’s mostly entertaining and when it isn’t there’s Richard to pipe up with some off the wall remark to get them chuckling again.

Conversation continues to be good after Richard and Robert go off to mingle some more. Mark introduces Jared to one or two or seven more people, all Betas, but the only people who really stick in his mind are the Alphas and Omegas he’s met. It’s like they’re in sharper focus, more vivid colours. He can’t _not_ remember them.

And then they’re going in for dinner, and Jared gets to sit close to the end of the table, with Mark on his right, Sebastian on his left, and a slightly harried-looking Misha just beyond him at the head of the table.

He doesn’t take much part in the conversation over dinner. For one thing, the food is excellent, and Jared has to put away quite a lot of it to keep up his strength. As his momma always says, he’s still a growing boy. For another, these people have a long history together, and they’re all much older than him, so even when they’re not exchanging private jokes and relating funny anecdotes that rely on intimate knowledge he doesn’t have, they’re talking about grown-up things he can’t really usefully comment on yet, like mortgage rates and insurance options and someone’s cousin Mary’s decision to go with a midwife instead of an OBGYN for her second pregnancy. 

But he doesn’t feel left out, he actually feels kinda privileged to be here at all. And from things he gradually picks up, as he listens, Jared comes to understand just how it can be that Alphas and Omegas are so very rare, and yet Misha has so many of each in his circle of friends. He supposes it should be obvious, really. They’re exes. The Alphas in the group have tended to date Omegas, and those Omegas haven’t been kicked out of the group when the relationship broke up. And the Omegas have tended to date Alphas, and so it goes. Jared catches that Robert was brought into the group by Katie, and after they split he bumped into Richard at one of these gatherings, and once Richard broke up with Kurt—apparently that had _not_ been pretty—those two got together. Jared’s faintly glad that he doesn’t get all the details. He’s not sure he could deal with meeting Misha’s exes and knowing that’s who they were. He’s feeling increasingly proprietary towards Misha, which is probably going to be a problem but he just can’t care right now when he’s having such a good time.

Some of the others manage to get slightly sloshed by the end of the meal, but no one offers Jared alcohol and he doesn’t ask. Afterwards, he helps man the coffee machine, gets everyone hooked up with the good stuff. No one expresses any confidence in their ability to attack dessert just yet, which is probably for the best considering how much they just collectively all ate.

Jared volunteers to help with putting away the leftovers and doing the dishes, but Misha says that they always draw lots, it’s a thing. And sure enough, toothpicks are produced, some are broken in half, and they all go into Misha’s fist to be offered around. The toothpick Jared draws is full-length, so he shrugs and wanders back out to the lounge area with his coffee. Sinks into the nearest armchair, which smells like Sebastian (and a little bit like Misha, too) and makes him smile. This has gone well, he thinks. He’s been good, the meeting-other-Alphas thing hasn’t been horrible, and he hasn’t done anything reprehensible to any of the delicious-smelling Omegas about. What could have been a disaster has really gone rather well.

And then Misha stumbles in, a bit more buoyantly drunk than Jared had realised, seats himself half on the arm of the chair and half on Jared’s thighs, and fucking _offers his neck_. Scent slams into Jared, like fruit and honey and spiced meat and every good thing in the world, and just like that he’s instantly hard, uncomfortable in his jeans. Misha wriggles right down into his lap, and that’s it, he’s beyond knowing how to deal with this. He’s in serious danger of creaming his jeans, right here in this room that is slowly filling up with people once more.

“Misha,” he hisses, and then breathes in and oh, God, _Misha_ … “You gotta hold still or I’ll—”

Misha turns those big blue eyes on him, amused and knowing. But he also stills. “Next semester,” he says, conspiratorially, “I don’t want you in any of my classes. I don’t want to be in a… supervisory position over you. If you catch my drift?”

Jared is suddenly, breathlessly, hoping-against-hope-ingly sure that he does, indeed, catch Misha’s drift. He opens his mouth.

A shadow falls across them, and Jared freezes, adrenaline spiking and heart racing as he waits to see whether flight or fight is more appropriate.

The newcomer is tall, imposing without being bulky, and has a predator’s stillness about him.

“Sorry to be so late,” he tells Misha. “Problems with the rental car.”

“Plenty of leftovers,” says Misha cheerfully, and claps his hands. “It’s great to see you.” He holds out his hands, and the guy graciously helps him up. Misha hugs him. There’s not much height difference in the guy’s favour, and yet he makes Misha look somehow tiny and frail, makes Jared want to—want to—

“Who’s your new friend?” the guys says, and gives an obvious sniff.

“This is Jared,” Misha says immediately. He half turns back to Jared, motions him subtly to stay put. “Jared, this is Mark Pellegrino. Sometimes we call him Mark P., to distinguish him from Mark S. But they kinda hate that, for some reason.” He watches like a hawk as Mark bends to offer a handshake. Jared accepts. It’s brief but it’s a power-play, and he’s not sure who wins. “Come to the kitchen and let’s get you something to eat.”

Jared basks in the peace left behind in their wake, eyes closed, sipping his neglected coffee, grateful that the arrival of a fellow Alpha quelled his erection before it could embarrass him.

Misha calls him the next afternoon, and the awkwardness is almost a tangible thing hanging in the air between them. “I’m sorry, Jared,” he says. “I was drunk, and I crossed some lines we’ve both done so well at respecting until now.” He sighs, and then Jared can hear him take a sip of something. “But I was serious about asking you to consider not taking any of my classes in future. I’m not offering or promising anything, you understand—ethically I can’t. Not yet. But—hypothetically—if there was mutual interest in exploring something a little more… intimate… between us, it would be easier to pursue that in a way that would enable me to remain gainfully employed, and that would not throw your grades into doubt, if we could honestly say that you hadn’t been my student for some time. It would be even better if we could say I’d started a relationship with you as an alumnus rather than a student. Are you following?”

Jared slithers down the bed a little more, until his head falls off the foot end and he can just sort of flop there, boneless. “I think so,” he says carefully. “Hypothetically—if the interest was mutual—would that explain why, in a room full of Omegas, it’s your scent I just can’t ignore?”

Misha’s breath catches, and it’s a long, thrumming moment before he responds. “You have to understand… that scent isn’t everything. That someone’s scent can be… completely enticing, beyond anything else you’ve ever… and yet that doesn’t magically mean that your personality and his are compatible. It doesn’t make it fate. It doesn’t mean that a relationship would actually work out, long-term. It just means… that it’s going to be very, very difficult not to act on that attraction. That it feels like you’ll go mad if you don’t at least try it out.”

Jared lies there for long moments, replaying that in his head. Decides that, actually, it _is_ an answer. That it kinda tells him everything he needs to know here. Except _when_. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Here I am causing trouble in your life.”

Misha laughs at that, a wry, self-deprecating sort of laugh. “Don’t worry about that. A little chaos is good for me, stirs things up. Thank you for being so well-behaved at the party, by the way. It must have been difficult for you, with all those other Alphas around. I was in the kitchen for most of it, but no one reported so much as growling out of you. I’m impressed.”

Jared doesn’t really know what to say to that. He’s not real sure he deserves the compliment. “I kinda wanted to hit Kurt. For no reason. I just…” He shudders. “You know how dry pumice stone feels on your fingers? It was that kind of feeling. Unpleasant, just being near him. Everyone else was okay, though. Well, that other Mark guy, he was a bit… scary. But I liked Robert and Katie and whoever else. And your Omega friends, I adored them. Even Sebastian, and he’s a bit… I don’t know, sharp? That’s not the word. Prickly? It—” He frowns, remembering Sebastian, with Julie sitting so close. “Everyone seemed really kinda touchy-feely. Is that normal, for us? I mean, more so than Betas?”

“Hmm,” Misha says. “I think so. We want to be close for the scents, and somehow that’s less awkward if there’s cuddles involved. Also… two of us, or two of you, it’s not…” He takes a big breath, starts again. “You don’t enjoy Mark’s scent, I think. Might even dislike it. But, somehow, if we put the two of you in a pile of Omegas, it… the overall scent is…” He makes a frustrated sound, and Jared pictures him knuckling at his forehead. “I feel as if the English language is betraying me here. It’s so hard to describe anything purely instinctive in meaningful terms. If only Shakespeare had been an Omega, I’m sure I’d at least have some pithy quotes on hand.”

“I get it, I think,” Jared soothes him. “I mean, last night at your place there were all these scents all mixed up. And I knew that there were Alpha scents in among all that, but somehow it didn’t seem all that important. Wasn’t upsetting. But the other day, when two random Alphas challenged Jensen and me to a basketball game? There was no being calm around their scents. It’s like… there being a bunch of us, a little community, makes things safer, calmer maybe?”

He hears Misha sip his drink again, swallow. “You’re a bright kid,” he says. “Introspective. It’s like you didn’t get the competitive Alpha genes that should be telling you to pummel adversaries, raise armies, take over the world.”

“Just wasn’t raised that way. Mom was all about the peace and love. I don’t think she was actually a hippie back in the seventies or anything, but she sure was big on non-violence and being nice to people and veggie co-ops and so on. Even my birds and bees lecture had an extra little bit about how wonderful free love can be if you’re careful.”

Misha laughs again, delighted now. “Yeah, my Mom was a little like that, too. Though I do get the impression yours was actually sort of strict, whatever her other values may have been.”

“I guess so.” Jared bites his lip thoughtfully. “I never thought of it like this before, but now I think… maybe she was trying to raise me to be as different from Dad as possible. Maybe the hippie thing was just a pretext, I don’t know, so she had a reason to make sure I never took up boxing or thought about joining the army. I guess I’ll have a lot of questions for her when I go home at Christmas. Not all that sure I’ll like the answers, though.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I, um. As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, it’s probably not a habit we should fall into. But you’re still okay to call Mark, if you need to talk about all this crap?”

“Yeah. Yeah, meeting him was… good. He smelled like fireworks and candy. I like him, I really like him.”

“So I’ve got a rival, hmm?” Though Misha’s tone is amused, it also has a little extra rumble to it, like the barest hint of a growl.

Jared frowns. “Do two Alphas ever—?”

“No. Not as a rule. Sometimes they fight and it briefly flares into something else. But long-term, stable sexual relationships between Alphas? Never, as far as I know.”

“Then you don’t have a rival, do you?”

There’s a pause. Misha’s tongue clicks. “Brat,” he says, affectionately. “I’m going to let you go, before I’m tempted…”

“Tempted?” Jared prompts softly, very aware of the rushing sound of his blood in his ears.

Fabric rustles as Misha moves. “Never mind. I’ll see you in class. Have a good day, Jared. Bye.” 

And he’s gone, leaving Jared gripping his phone tight in his sweaty hand, dick hard in the pajama pants he still hasn’t changed out of.

 _Fuck_.

Misha wants him. Misha. Wants. _Him._

Man, he’s going to have a hard time focusing on that paper he has to write for psych.

Christmas looms and Jared goes home to Texas. It’s strange, walking back into the house he grew up in. It has a smell, the way other people’s houses do but his own never seemed to. He supposes that’s what happens when you’ve been away so long, you stop being used to the smell of a place, start noticing it the way a stranger would. His mom and brother look the same, though Jeff seems a lot less intimidating now. Possibly the height difference has lessened? Jared isn’t sure.

He opens his mouth to say something— _you should have told me what it means to be Alpha_ , perhaps, _not knowing made me a danger to others_ —because she should have, and Jeff, too, he’s a medical student, or as good as, he must have known—but the words won’t come. It’s Christmas. It isn’t the time for unpleasantness. Right?

And then the front door opens and in runs the first of a gaggle of small cousins, and that’s that for private Padalecki conversations. He barely has time to sigh in defeat before he’s scooping up an armful of exuberant five-year-old for a hug and hair-ruffle.

Misha calls him Christmas Day. “I never asked. Is it okay to wish you a Merry Christmas? Are you religious?”

Jared checks that the kids aren’t getting up to any more mischief now than they were a minute ago, then settles into his favourite threadbare armchair, automatically angling his body so as to avoid having the broken spring poke anywhere delicate. “Raised Christian. I’m not devout. I’m… hopeful. How about you?”

“I believe in a higher power. But I’m fucked if I know which one.”

Jared’s startled into a laugh that is snorty and undignified.

“Merry Christmas, Jared. That’s all I really called for. That, and to hear the sound of your voice, old sap that I am.”

“You’re not that old. Are you?”

“26. Which I’m sure you realise is well and truly over the hill.”

“Oh, well and truly. You still back in California?”

“Uh huh. Sebastian’s visiting, with his latest lady, so I’m not all alone.”

“Is she—?” He can’t bring himself to say it, not in this house.

“Alpha? No, not this time. She’s Beta, and scent-blind. Some kind of scientist. Quite a catch, in every way.”

“But you don’t think it’ll last?”

Misha makes his thoughtful humming noise, and then comes the usual pause while he nuts out his answer. Jared can almost imagine his little pensive frown. “I know I have a bias here. I try to compensate for it, but it’s hard. _I_ feel the pull to Alphas—not all of them, but some—so strongly that it’s difficult for me to imagine trying to swim against that tide. Not only working to keep a relationship strong without that lure, but resisting the tug of every passing Alpha as well. I’ve tried, and it always felt like work. I always resented, just a little bit, that my Beta partner couldn’t give me… couldn’t just catch and hold my interest via the magic of pheromones. But it’s possible Sebastian simply doesn’t feel that way. Some people don’t. And he has ten years of life experience on me. Plenty of time to grow out of silly obsessions with scent, if that’s possible.”

“Sounds like you just have a type, and it’s Alphas. I don’t think that’s anything to feel guilty about. My room-mate only dates big-br—uh, well-endowed blondes.”

“And you? Do you have a type?”

Jared shrugs. “Nothing too specific. Men. Skinny or kinda chubby, but not really much in between. Big showy muscle doesn’t really… I mean, I’d like to _look_ that way, and I’m working on it, but it doesn’t really _attract_ me to someone else. I like brains, and I like people who can be a bit silly, you know? And I kinda, uh, have a lot of fantasies about straight guys, but I’m trying to train myself out of that.”

“Your friend Jensen is extremely pretty,” Misha observes, too casually.

“Yup,” Jared agrees cheerfully, not giving an inch.

He can almost hear Misha’s eye-roll.

“I suppose I deserved that. Just—don’t let me find out you’re seeing someone by smelling him on you, okay? It’ll hurt less if you just tell me.”

“I made out with Jessica Hillis behind the school gym in tenth grade. That’s it, that’s my whole sordid story. I’m not in a rush to get any more experience, though frankly I suspect my kissing technique could use some work.”

“I… God, Jared, there’s nowhere good this conversation can go, is there?” He laughs again, more rueful this time. “I think I’m gonna go. Enjoy your time at home.”

“Yeah. Misha? Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, Jared. Bye.”

Jared sits stupidly smiling at his phone for at least a minute before an ominous crash reminds him that he’s supposed to be preventing a half-dozen young cousins from causing mayhem. He sighs and clambers to his feet.

His mom is standing in the doorway from the kitchen. She looks pointedly from his face to the cell he’s shoving back in his pocket and back again, both her eyebrows raised.

“Just a friend from college,” he tells her, going over to give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Misha? Is that a girl’s name?”

“No, ma’am.”

The muscles around her eyes tighten. “Go and bring the shopping in from the car, please. I’ll watch the kids.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pulls a 3.5 GPA his first semester, tells himself that’s not half bad for a guy still settling in to the whole college lifestyle. He’s a little disappointed, yeah, but he also knows he stopped short of putting in a full one hundred percent effort there.

Misha gave him an A-, though. And despite their… whatever, he trusts Misha to grade him fairly. (Genevieve got an A, as usual, which required that they dance around the room together, holding hands and mutually assuring themselves of their respective awesome.)

He’s not going to continue with psych. Probably. Maybe sociology instead? Or maybe chem. So many choices.

But English, definitely. If not with Misha. Jared’s not sure it’s a potential major for him, but he knows he’s not ready to give it up yet.

Everyone seems to have advice for him. Well, except Mark, who never even finished high school (“took one look at sixth form college and scarpered”) and claims not to understand “this academic lark”. Jared talks to him or texts him most days, even when he’s not bursting with Alpha-related questions.

“Do, um, do Omegas go into heat? Or is that just an urban legend?” he asks, one chilly-for-California morning shortly after New Year. He’s got coffee and a quiet spot at one end of his dorm building, by a floor-to-ceiling window with such a boring view of the backsides of other buildings that there aren’t even any armchairs in what should be a seating area. It’s fine, he likes to sit on the floor, stretch his legs out in front of him.

Mark makes that tiny tutting noise that means he can’t quite believe Jared doesn’t know something he ought to know. “Yeah, they go into heat all right. Not often. Every few years or so. And there are drugs that can prevent it, though I gather the drugs are a pretty rough ride in themselves. It’s not like cats, though. There’s no actual _danger_ if they don’t get knotted up during that time. It’s just bloody uncomfortable.”

Jared worries his lower lip a moment. “And when they’re in heat, they’re pretty much irresistible?”

“Yeah. Good way to lose a weekend, bump into an O in heat. Even one who smells mated, if they’re far along enough, you’ll want to help. Because it does. Help, I mean. As Alphas, we can literally take away their pain and replace it with pleasure and contentment.”

Jared’s still frowning, stuck on— “But what if the O isn’t my type, and I’m not theirs? What if we would never, ordinarily—?”

“Need changes things. And it is a need, on both sides. Trust me, we can’t scent Omegas in pain and not need to make it stop.”

“But… I don’t…”

“Just spit it out, kid.”

Jared huffs out a breath. “Fine. If the O’s irresistible to me, and he’s in heat so he’s desperate to get fucked by any passing Alpha, so we do it, isn’t that kinda… like rape?”

Jared appreciates that Mark takes the time to think through his answer. “It can definitely fall in an unpleasant grey area,” he says after a while. “You might be fucking your worst enemy, the guy who stole your laptop, an ex you really shouldn’t get back together with, the piano teacher you never thought of in That Way. But the thing is that the need, and the—the impairment of the ability to think straight, let’s say, is mutual. An Omega’s heat affects both of you. Perhaps not equally, but it’s hard to say. So I think of it as more like what happens when you have gleeful fumbly sex with someone while you’re both drunk. It may not be a good idea, but you’re _both_ so plastered that you think it’s the best idea ever, you know?”

Jared sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I want to be around any Omegas in heat.”

“You might feel differently when it’s someone you’re involved with. It’s a rush.”

“That’s different,” Jared agrees.

“It is. And you know, most Omegas don’t go running around in public when they’re in heat. They go home and they deal with it. They make arrangements for friends to help them out, or just to bring them food so they can be alone until it’s over.”

A horrible thought hits Jared. “When do they _first_ go into heat? I mean, the students here—are any of them gonna go into heat and not know that it’s happening or what to do about it?”

“No clue. But I expect the university health service keeps a pretty good eye on them, because if nothing else, Omegas running around in heat can lead to some pretty nasty skirmishes between Alphas.”

Jared winces, struck with a sudden image of getting into a vicious punch-up with Kurt over Misha. “I’m beginning to wish I never asked.”

“You have to take the good with the bad. There’s plenty of good about being an Alpha. You’re stronger and faster than you’d otherwise be. You can size up people and situations on instinct much faster. You can use your scent to calm or soothe Omegas, and sometimes that’s priceless. A long time ago, I came across an Omega who’d just been hit by a car and broken her leg. I held her hand until the ambulance arrived, used my scent to ease the pain. The paramedics said I helped keep her from going into shock. Believe me, kid, I was glad to be Alpha that day.”

Jared sips his coffee--still rather on the tongue-burn-y side--and makes an affirmative noise. He can see how that would be awesome. But how often does that kind of scenario actually arise in a person’s life?

“And the _sex_ , Jared.” Mark’s tone shifts into something almost musical as he warms to his subject. “You won’t know this yet, but sex with a truly compatible O is just… transcendent. Worth all the guilt you’ll ever feel for snapping at people and starting fights now and then. But, if you don’t feel that way…” A pause that sounds like a shrug. “They can neuter us now. With a little pharmaceutical implant under the skin. Ten minutes with your trusty medical professional, and you’ll never have to worry about being driven out of your mind with lust by an Omega in heat, or reacting to anyone like you did to Kurt. And you can press your nose into Misha’s neck, but you’ll never really smell him again.”

Jared’s afraid his whimper is perfectly audible. And he can feel the angry red lines crawl across his cheeks as if he’s just been threatened with something awful. He casts about for a distraction. “T-tell me more about the sex?”

Mark’s laughter is rich and warm.

Just when he’s managed to put the whole heat thing to the back of his mind and set out for a brisk walk around campus before dinner, Jared’s phone chirps with a message from Misha.

_~Mark S tells me you are freaking out about heat. Need to talk about it? Get an O’s POV? M.~_

_~Too embarrassed right now~_ , he sends back, because it’s stupidly easy to be honest over text messaging.

 _~When you’re ready,~_ comes Misha’s answer in due course, _~you know where to find me. Ciao.~_

Jared abruptly changes course, heads for Genevieve’s place to see if she’s up for some candy and distraction.

Like a lot of big events in his life lately, his long over-due blowout with Mom happens over the phone. It’s a Friday night in February. Their weekly conversations have been growing increasingly tense since Christmas, and went rapidly downhill after he blurted out something about a certain super-hot Omega late in January and she told him she didn’t want to hear it--right before she hung up on him. But it’s this day, this conversation, when he tires of all the unacknowledged elephants in the room.

“Mom,” he snaps, after another dig at his new-found assertiveness, “I’m Alpha--”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she retorts, sounding smug and wounded at the same time. “You don’t need to be rude.”

“I’m not being rude. It’s a fact and we both need to deal with it. Which is something I could have been working on all these years, if you’d only been honest about--”

“I never lied to you,” she says, and Jared can well imagine the tight lines of hurt and disappointment on her face, exactly like the time he’d broken one of her prized decorative plates by putting it in the dishwasher when he was thirteen.

“No,” he allows, “but you never told me what I needed to know.”

“You didn’t need to know,” she insists, speaking slowly and clearly like she thinks he’s too stupid to understand. “No one needed to know. It was best for all concerned if we expected you to behave just like a normal child. Then perhaps...”

“What?” Jared demands, stung. “What? It’d stop being true?” He can feel the lines scorching into life on his cheeks, and it’s mortifying. He scrubs angrily at his face, rubs his eyes, and his fingertips come away wet. He sniffs and listens to his mother try to change the subject.

It only goes downhill from there. He doesn’t say much, starts to feel like speaking now is simply wasting words. It ends when she accuses him of wanting to wallow in his beastly side and hangs up on him. Jared cries so hard he can barely breathe when he calls Jensen. He’s a little recovered, though still a snotty mess, when Jensen _and_ Genevieve finally manage to get into the dorm and appear before him, arms spread. Jared lets himself be hugged and held and cooed over. It’s kinda funny, he thinks in a detached sort of way, how those two can actually call a ceasefire on their ongoing battle of wits when they’re both focused on him. He’s barely aware of the cell being pried out of his hands or of Jensen speaking to someone. He just wants to lie down, go to sleep, and not wake up for a hundred years.

“Come on,” Jensen says, “we’re going for a walk.”

“We are?” His voice comes out thick and nasal.

“Where’s your jacket?” 

Jared blinks, trying to form some kind of useful response. But Genevieve has already distinguished his jacket from his room-mate’s, and with Jensen’s assistance she bundles him into it.

It’s a long walk, but Jared doesn’t really notice. As long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, his friends don’t expect him to talk. All he can think about is how his mother never wanted an Alpha kid, hates Alphas, doesn’t want them in the house. Dirty, filthy, dangerous, untrustworthy… oh, and Free Love, apparently, doesn’t extend to same-sex liaisons. He stumbles a few times on the flat, even sidewalk, but Jensen’s there to catch him awkwardly and keep them both somehow magically upright.

There’s a door. Jensen knocks on it. “Blow your nose,” he says, handing him a tissue. Jared obediently complies.

And then the door opens and Misha’s there and—

“Steady on, don’t wanna crush him,” Jensen scolds gently, as Jared rocks the beautiful, kind, sweet-smelling man in his arms.

“It’s fine,” Misha says. His hands come up to Jared’s head, lifting, guiding until his wet, stuffy nose slips between shirt collar and neck to touch skin. Jared manages a long, shuddering inhale through his one cooperative nostril. “That’s it, nice and calm.” Misha shifts. “Come in, Jensen, Genevieve. Make yourselves at home.”

Misha manoeuvres him with surprising strength, and they wind up in the lounge area that Jared remembers so well. He’s encouraged to lie down on the couch, his head in Misha’s lap. “Talk first, or sleep first?” Misha says, but he doesn’t seem to be talking to Jared, so Jared doesn’t trouble himself to answer.

“I don’t think he’s feeling very talkative yet,” Jensen says. “Can you help him sleep?”

“Uh-hmm. He could fight it, but I’m fairly sure he doesn’t know how.”

 _I wouldn’t,_ Jared thinks numbly. _If you want me to do something, I’ll do it. Because it’s you._

The last thing Jared’s really aware of before the drowsiness sweeps down like warm, heavy velvet curtains is Misha reaching for a book and starting to read, his friends exchanging good-natured banter in the background.

Jared wakes nosing at Misha’s crotch. Which is embarrassing, and Misha’s obvious amusement doesn’t exactly help matters. He’s in the process of hurriedly sitting up, all elbows, when he remembers why he’s here and all that weight of guilt and sadness crashes into him again.

“Shh,” Misha says, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him in so he can kiss his temple. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“My Mommy doesn’t love me any more.” He tries to make a joke of it, but his smile is shaky and it comes out sounding like the complete truth.

“Of course she does,” Misha replies simply, rubbing his shoulder. “She’s your Mom. Did you have a fight?”

Jared sniffs. Buries his face in Misha’s neck because it’s there. When he speaks, his lips brush Misha’s warm skin, and it’s like he’s secretly kissing him. “I called her out for keeping me in the dark about all that Alpha stuff. She… wasn’t protecting me, or anyone else. She’s just disgusted by it all. Thought if she ignored it, maybe… maybe it would just… And by the way, it’s sinful and revolting if I like men instead of women.”

“I’m sorry, Jared.” He hugs him a little tighter. “It must’ve hurt to hear all that. But I promise you, she still loves you, in her own way. You saw her at Christmas, you know she loves you.”

He sounds so sure and so rational, and some of the mindless anger in Jared’s chest dies away.

“Oh, thank God,” Jensen breathes, somewhere nearby. “That was giving me a headache. All right if I make some coffee?”

Jared looks up sharply, finds both his friends are still here, Jensen sprawled out with a book, Genevieve on the floor, leaning against the side of his armchair. He manages a small smile, which is returned on all fronts.

“I will happily kiss your feet in exchange for coffee, Jensen, my beloved.”

Jared pokes him for that, and Misha chuckles.

“Ludicrously sweet, right? With milk?”

“Yes, please.”

“Gen?”

She’s already getting up. “I’ll give you a hand,” she says, just a tad too brightly.

In the silence after they depart for the kitchen, snatches of his earlier phone conversation intrude on his thoughts once more. Misha rubs soothing circles on his back as if he can feel Jared’s distress.

“She talked like Alphas are just… animals.”

“Tell me about your father,” Misha says. “Why isn’t he in your life?”

He wants more contact, wants… Jared moves, shifts back so he’s sitting in the corner of the couch, one leg stretched out, one foot on the floor. Pats the space between his thighs. Holds his breath. But Misha shrugs and does indeed come and sit, leaning back against Jared’s chest. It’s as comforting as being wrapped up in a favourite childhood blanket. He strokes a hand absently down Misha’s chest, reassured by this palpable proof that a real, living person likes and trusts him enough to get this close. A real, living, _awesome_ person.

An awesome person who just asked him a difficult question. He takes a deep breath, decides this is an old wound that won’t actually reopen if he says it quickly enough. “Dad was a bouncer in a club when they met. But there weren’t enough fights for his liking, and he left us to join the Marines. I was about two. Mom always says he needed to go, that she wants him to be happy and being active and violent makes him happy. And I kinda believe that.” He pauses a moment, makes an effort to slow his speech. “But I also know she really, really wanted a daughter, and there’s never been anyone else for her long-term, so… I don’t actually remember him. I do remember his dad, though. He was a nasty piece of work. Dunno if he was Alpha, though. Probably never find out now.” 

“Is he still alive, your Dad?”

“No idea. I don’t think they made any particular efforts to keep in touch. It’s been years since I heard anything about him, anyway.” His voice has gone wistful, he realises, and he’s calmer than he was. “Are you doing something with your scent again?”

Misha shakes his head. “Not consciously, anyway. Calm Omegas are always going to be a calming influence on you.”

Jensen and Gen return right about then, holding four mugs of coffee between them. Jensen merely gazes at them a moment with those big green eyes before starting to hand out the caffeinated goodness, but there’s something distinctly impish in Genevieve’s smile. Jared holds his mug carefully out to the side so he doesn’t burn Misha and gives it a sniff, kinda touched that one or both of his friends remember how he likes his coffee.

“It’s going to hit you when you leave, though, Jared,” Misha says. He’s licking coffee off his thumb, which is cute, though why he’d want to go sticking his digits in a mug of seriously hot liquid in the first place Jared can’t guess. “You’ll step out of range of my scent and find you’re not really as collected as you think you are. You need to be prepared for that.”

Jared winces. “You mean I’ll be a blubbering mess again?”

“I doubt it. Just sad and angry and all that fun stuff.” 

Misha catches his stroking hand, holds it tight, and Jared notices the first stirrings of non-platonic feelings towards the man since he arrived here. Easy to ignore, that though, in favour of friendly comfort.

After that, Jensen unearths the TV remote from beneath the stratified record of Misha’s half-finished books spread over the coffee table, and puts on figure skating, of all things. He keeps the volume low enough to talk over, and Misha chats about his family and childhood, about frequent moves and changes of school, about a mother who genuinely _was_ a hippie, of the kind who couldn’t really remember the sixties. Jensen, too, offers more about his family than he’s ever told Jared before. About how his parents are devout Christians and he’s a lot less so. About how they once freaked out because they thought he was “suspiciously close” to his very male, very body-pierced, very flamboyant best friend. About how although he’d made it very clear to them that it was merely a close friendship, he’d decided never to give them the satisfaction of informing them that he wasn’t remotely bisexual, just plain boring old straight. Misha finds this very amusing. 

Jared isn’t so sure what to say. “They forgave you?” he murmurs, surprised.

“They got over it. Spoke to their pastor and were reminded that it’s the Lord’s place to judge, not man’s. Let it go. Apologised for the overreaction. Welcomed Davy back with open arms. I’m actually kinda proud of them.”

“Still friends with Davy?”

Jensen smiles. “Yeah, actually. He’s in grad school in Austin, so we Skype a lot. Every time he gets an A, bam, new piercing. He’s bristling with the damn things these days.”

Jared smiles, decides he’d like to meet the guy.

Genevieve talks least of all, but that makes Jared pay real close attention to the story she does offer up, about a game she and her brothers and sister used to play where they were explorers in an imaginary new world. He can hear in her voice that she misses them, that it’s a strain being eight hundred miles away, but also that she’s accepted it as the price she pays for all the exciting new experiences she’s had out here. He’s completely sure in that moment for the very first time that she _will_ travel, will have amazing adventures, will probably wind up settled far from him, too. It’s an odd feeling, somewhere in his abdomen, an impossible mix of triumph and disappointment. Afterwards, she shakes off whatever the memories made her feel and mentions that she has an appointment bright and early. She calls herself a cab, spends the time until it arrives making sure Jared’s going to be all right.

“I could stay, if you really need me. It’s just I have this thing in the morning that I really--”

“It’s fine,” Jared says, managing through sheer determined genius to offer and subsequently deliver a hug without dislodging Misha. She still smells like jasmine and good, growing things. “Take care. And thanks for this.”

Genevieve shakes her head, dismissing his thanks as unnecessary, and takes her leave.

Silence descends. The figure-skating on TV has given way to some kind of dog show. A glossy black Newfoundland trots easily around the ring, looking completely in control of his environment and the tall, skinny man holding his leash.

Misha shifts, sliding down the couch until he’s using Jared’s stomach for a pillow and his bare feet dangle over the couch arm at the other end. His toes are unexpectedly… cute. Jared’s not sure how toes can be cute, but these ones demonstrably _are_.

“You guys smell good together,” Jensen says, without any obvious trace of mischief.

Jared has to look away for fear of blushing, but Misha only smiles serenely.

Jared really, really doesn’t want to leave Misha’s place that night. But, on the other hand, he’s scared of overstaying his welcome, so those things almost cancel out and make it easier to go with Jensen’s gentle tugging and head for the door.

“Take good care of him,” Misha says, and Jensen turns back to offer a casual salute.

The walk home seems shorter this time, and it’s only very late in the piece that Jared realises that’s because they’re heading for Jensen’s apartment and not his own dorm.

“We’re getting pizza,” Jensen says, as if hearing the question Jared hasn’t asked, “and then we’re watching whatever stupid crap is on the box until it’s well past our bedtimes. Then we’re probably going to have an argument about whether or not you’re too big for the couch. Then we’re going to share my nice big bed in a totally friendly, non-gay way. Objections?”

“I have homework?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Do it then.”

Well, that settles that, then.

By the time finals roll around again, Jared’s starting to feel at home here. More so than he did at his actual home over Christmas, and that was before The Thing With Mom, so… yeah. He’s getting the hang of the college thing, of staying on top of the reading, of distinguishing the essential reading from the stuff he should merely try to get done at some stage, of interpreting professors’ cryptic remarks about what might be on the test. And he’s learning to tolerate having a room-mate, though he manages _that_ with a strong daily dose of avoidance. He has good friends in Genevieve and Jensen, and also Mark and Misha although for practical reasons there has to be more distance there. Facebook’s pretty thick with old high school acquaintances who want to keep in touch, but Jared still remembers how they used to treat him when he was actually within reach, and it doesn’t exactly motivate him to keep logging in to Facebook. He has better things to be doing with his time. Like a job in the campus bookshop to help make ends meet. And a guy he really, really wants to hook up with who seems to want to hook up with him, only Jared has to wait to hear the magic word before anything can happen there.

So he shoots a lot of hoops with Jensen, and sometimes they go to the gym and lift weights or whatever. Jared’s slowly putting on some real muscle; he definitely isn’t a scrawny kid anymore. He discusses big dreams and pie-in-the-sky schemes with Genevieve, helps her practice her touristy phrases in the languages of all the countries she most wants to visit.

He’s studying Shakespeare and he gets it now. Not all the words, but the rhythms. They never made sense to him in high school, no matter how many times the whole blank verse thing was explained. And he didn’t get it his first day of Shakespeare class, either, when the professor ran through it in his high, reedy voice, all excited about his subject despite having taught it for fifty years or whatever. But the TA who’d led their next discussion class? She’d explained it so an idiot could understand. Jared admires that: it seems to him that it takes serious smarts to make complex things seem simple.

He’s thinking about going into architecture or engineering, though he knows he’s leaving that decision rather late. He doesn’t see himself as a writer or a professor—he sees the toll that stuff takes on Misha—so he’s been thinking about more hands-on professions where he can use a little creativity, a little math, and work to make worthwhile things that last. Maybe he should see about getting some career guidance or something?

“I just had a strange phone call from Misha,” Mark says. “Where are you right now? Can you pop along and see him?”

Jared frowns, pressing the phone more firmly to his ear and trying to tune out the ambient noise. “Out shopping. Where is he?”

“At home. Get a cab. If I’m wrong about this we’ll have a laugh about it later, okay? Now move.”

“Yes, sir,” Jared replies automatically, and ends the call. Hooks the pink Hawaiian shirt he was going to try on back on its rack and heads out. Passes a security guard on his way out of the mall and their eyes lock, Jared’s steps faltering. There’s a moment of… recognition, and then the guy gives a small nod and Jared walks on, secure in the knowledge that that was an Alpha thing and not an I-think-you’ve-been-shoplifting thing.

He’s at Misha’s door ten minutes later, one taxi fare the poorer, and with the Alpha colours a faint tickle under his skin. The cab driver seems glad to be rid of him.

The door, of course, is locked. There aren’t any convenient open windows to climb in through, and he’s in full view of any number of Misha’s neighbours. So he knocks. Finds himself oddly unsurprised when the sound of footsteps followed by the sound of locks and doorknobs turning leads to the door opening and the sight of Kurt in the doorway. 

Jared’s nostrils flare wide, like he’s drawing in the hugest possible breath before diving into some chilly lake. “I want to see Misha,” he says, not making it a question. He pushes past the other Alpha—who’s a lot more solid than he looks and smells musty with disdain—into the house. And somehow there’s no uncertainty in his mind about where he’s going, he just makes straight for the kitchen and there’s Misha, leaning against the counter beside the knife-block with an unreadable expression on his face. 

“You okay?” Jared asks.

Misha blinks, eyes refocusing like he’s only just noticed Jared’s there. He’s barefoot, looks rumpled and in need of a hug or a scotch, possibly both.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and _squeezes_. He winces. 

“You, young man,” Kurt says, almost pleasantly, “were not invited.”

Fear slides through Jared, slippery and wriggling, and he knows that’s what Kurt wants him to feel. Which makes him angry. The first hints of his Alpha markings tingle into angry life over his cheekbones. “Get your hand off me,” he says tightly, “or I’ll break it.”

“Really.” The tone drips with scorn. But the hand lifts.

“Jared, stay, please,” Misha murmurs. His eyes are fever-bright, and he’s pale and shaky. “Kurt was just leaving.”

“We have unfinished business, Misha.”

“I would find your departure a satisfactory conclusion. We can talk again when you’re back in your right mind.” A pause. Misha’s eyes flash. “If you can find it again.”

Jared turns, rolling his shoulders, unsure he’s up to staring Kurt down, let alone fighting him off.

More intimidating than Kurt’s height are the red lines scored into his cheeks. Jared eyes them, swallows. They don’t look worse than what he’s feeling on himself, so maybe they're not past reason. Yet.  
But every moment this drags on...

His phone rings, and he’s grateful for the break in the tension. Jared fishes it from his pocket, glances at the screen: Mark. He accepts the call, flicks the phone to speaker, reaches out to set it down on the counter.

“Hello, Mark, you’re on speaker.”

“Righto,” comes Mark’s voice, only a little distorted. “I’ve looked up the direct number for your local cop shop. Shall I give them a bell?”

“Hi, Mark,” Misha calls. “We’ll let you know in a minute.”

“Roger that.”

There’s a moment of truly agonising silence.

“Fine,” Kurt spits. “You’re a prick, you upstart squirt.” He rounds on Misha, and somehow his smile is more unsettling than a snarl. “And _you_ , mister, are a fucking tease.” And off he goes, clomping all the way, the worst of the solvent-like stink of corrosive lust and rage retreating with him.

Something rumbles in Jared’s chest, and he can’t help stalking after Kurt to make sure the bastard actually leaves. 

When he gets back to the kitchen, which still smells of unfriendly Alpha, he can’t keep from taking Misha in his arms and planting little soft kisses all over his nose and stubbly cheeks, reassuring himself that Misha’s okay. Misha melts into him, tilts his head, offering his neck. Jared takes a long drag, finds his scent almost back to normal now, bouncy and vibrant and a little—

Just like that he’s hard, groaning as he drops a hand to rub over his uncomfortably denim-caged cock. “God, Misha, are you going into heat? Is that what this is about? Is this how it feels?”

Misha laughs, shaking his head. He rocks his hips forward, apparently unconsciously, and he’s hard, too. He makes a high, throaty, pleased sort of sound that makes pure lust zing up Jared’s spine. “No, Jay. This is just how it feels when you really, really dig someone, and your pheromones—”

“Oh, sweet mercy, how I wish this was a video call,” says an English-accented voice.

Jared freezes. “You didn’t end the call.”

Misha shrugs. “It’s your phone.”

“Don’t mind me,” purrs Mark, “I’m rather enjoying it.”

Jared scrambles to retrieve his phone. “I’ll call you later,” he snaps. Mark’s laughter is cut off by silence as the call is terminated.

It seems pretty fucking likely that Misha’s going to end this any second, so Jared grabs him and kisses him for real while he still can. Licks his greedy way into Misha’s mouth, moaning as those slightly-chapped lips move against his own. He hasn’t kissed like this in years, and it’s so hot, so intense he almost can’t stand it. And there are hands on his back, sliding lower, cupping his butt, pulling him close so their crotches can grind together, and it’s completely fucking perfect. He presses Misha right up against the cupboards and that feels good, too, like he has him pinned, held right where he wants him and—

Jared pulls back, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, I…” He swipes a hand across his forehead, finds it damp with sweat. “I shouldn’t have…” He steps back, but can’t keep from pulling Misha with him. But at least he’s not pinning him anymore, right?

But Misha’s smiling as he raises a hand to stroke Jared’s cheek, his jaw. “You’re doing fine. This is a _joint_ stupid decision, never fear.”

Like some Technicolor hero out of a movie, Jared grabs Misha’s forearm so he can press a kiss to the centre of his palm, then press it against his cheek. And then something possesses him to give Misha’s inner wrist a good sniff, and that’s… yeah. Not as wonderfully fragrant as his neck, but there’s something special there too, something that makes Jared shut his eyes a moment and sigh.

“Yeah,” Misha says, as if he’s taking part in some conversation Jared can’t hear, “this _is_ something. It seems I have some soul-searching to do.”

Jared mouths at the vulnerable place that smells so good, feels Misha’s pulse flutter under his tongue. Desists with an effort. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”

Misha doesn’t answer, just looks at him with those soulful blue eyes.

“I’m gonna go,” he says firmly, in an effort to convince himself. “Just, uh, don’t freak out if I sit right outside your front door for a while. Gotta wait for Mister Happy to go to sleep.”

Misha’s smile is weak but warm, like over-milky tea. He slides his arm free of Jared’s grasp and puts some distance between them. “Don’t—don’t judge Kurt too harshly, okay? I know it felt bad. It _was_ bad. It’s just… he interrupted me doing something, uh, a bit personal, so I smelled horny and unsatisfied to him. I think you can understand anyone reacting to that. What’s unfortunate isn’t that he reacted, it’s _how_ he reacted. Bear that in mind, if you happen to find yourself plotting bloody revenge, all right?”

Jared worries his lower lip, puzzling that out. He blinks. _Oh._ “You were j-jerking off?”

Misha’s eyes crinkle. “Teachers do it too, you know. I stopped to answer the door, and, well, if it had been anyone else but an Alpha, there’d have been no harm done.”

“He didn’t h-hurt you?” Damn it, what kind of rat was he that he hadn’t asked that sooner?

“You’d know,” Misha says simply. “Wounded Omega, physically or mentally, you'd know. How did I smell to you, when you came in?”

“Afraid.” He frowns, remembering. “Annoyed. Maybe—surprised?”

“That’s good, you’re getting more information now. Yeah, I was a little surprised to see you. But pleased. Thank you, by the way. I presume Mark sent you?”

Jared nods, and has a sudden horrible flash of what might have happened if—

“Stop that,” Misha says. “Everything’s fine. You saved the day, chased off the temporarily bad guy, and got to find out what I taste like. I think that ought to make it a good day, don’t you?”

After that, it’s hard not to want to throw him up against the fridge and kiss him senseless. But Jared restrains himself, and instead he offers a smile and a wave and then goes and lets himself out.

It only takes five minutes of sitting quietly on the doorstep before he can stop reliving having Misha in his arms and head back to campus without his dick protesting every step. Shopping can wait; the gift card his aunt sent him for Christmas to buy new clothes with will still be there when he’s got his head screwed back on properly. Besides, Genevieve will be back soon from wherever she’s gone, and shopping’s more fun with her around. And it would be good to have someone else to blame if he, uh, accidentally just happens to buy any more pink shirts.

His head doesn’t want to be screwed back on properly.

Ever, it would seem.

The anger fades to the point where thinking about Kurt merely makes him want to growl, not want to find the guy and punch him right in his smug face. But the other feelings don’t seem to be lessening at all. He has intrusive thoughts about Misha cropping up throughout the day. Misha’s in his daydreams, his nightmares, and his jerk-off fantasies. He catches himself searching for Misha’s scent whenever he’s out in public, looking through crowds for plaid shirts and blue eyes. And he’s driving his room-mate nuts with snapping books shut every five minutes because he just can’t concentrate for long on anything that isn’t Misha. If this is what being in love feels like, man, Cupid can keep it. This… is not an improvement to his life.

He calls Misha, in the end. Difficult as that is, it seems more sensible than typing out words in an email or text message that others might somehow see.

“Free to talk?” he murmurs, checking for the third time that he has his dorm room to himself.

“Sure. I’m just grading papers. I could use a break, and I’m sure you’ll be more lively than this florid prose.” Sounds of movement that make Jared picture him leaning back on the couch, putting his feet up. “What can I do for you?”

Jared’s breath hitches. “Elope with me and live happily ever after?”

“Don’t you think we should at least go on a date first?” comes the wry response.

“I think we should do _something_. I feel like I’m going crazy here. You’re all I can think about, some days. I don’t know how I haven’t failed any quizzes yet, I’m that unfocused. I think—I think I need to see more of you. Or else cut ties. I don’t think I can deal with—this.”

Misha sighs, not sounding at all surprised. “It was just the one girl back in high school, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“You told me you made out with some girl back in high school. But just the one?”

“Yeah.”

“And never any boys?”

“Just her.” Misha’s kitchen flashes before him in full living colour. “And you,” he adds, more quietly.

“Okay. Tell me, have you got a decent fake ID yet?”

“You expect me to answer that honestly?”

“Yup.”

“Then yes, I’ve got one.”

“There’s a gay bar called the Flamingo. Get Jensen to take you there, or one of your other friends. Pick up a nice twink—or a bear, if one takes your fancy—and let him blow you. Report back.”

Jared rubs his forehead as if that will clear matters up. “You’re giving me homework? _Sex_ homework?”

“I need to know what’s going on with you, and whether it’s in your head or in whatever part of you is intrinsically Alpha. And you need to know, too. Trust me.”

“If you’ve changed your mind about—”

“Jared.” For the first time, he hears a thread of anger in Misha’s voice. “I would tell you, if I was no longer interested. I’m not playing games here. Okay, I’ve been a little circumspect, but I think we’re both pretty fucking clear on what I want and why I think we need to wait.” He takes a deep breath, sighs it out. “I know you don’t understand this—hell, your mother could write the damn book on how not to raise Alpha children. But what you’ve been telling me worries me a little and I need more information because… Because there’s potential here for my chosen course of action to hurt you, okay? And I don’t want to do that. I never want to do that. So just… try out the blowjob plan for me, okay?”

Jared’s laugh is a little wet. “Okay. Sounds like an adventure. Though what if the guy wants me to—you know?”

“Tell him he can blow you and that’s all you’re offering. He might say no, but most won’t. It’s fun to jerk off while you blow a guy.”

“Really?” Jared squeaks.

There’s an amused warmth in Misha’s tone when he replies, “Yes, really.”

“I think I’m liking the plan a bit more now.”

“Exxxxcellent,” Misha replies, in an uncanny imitation of Mister Burns--which strangely isn’t as boner-killing as one might think.

So that’s how Jared finds himself with Gen, Jensen, and Mark (who’s in town for a conference) under the weirdly-coloured lights of the Flamingo one Wednesday night. He’s not wearing anything special, just the jeans and simple khaki tank Gen picked out of his closet—possibly the drabbest shirt he owns, but she seemed pleased with it—and yet here he is, getting so much attention he keeps wanting to check if his fly’s undone or something. He knows he’s supposed to be looking for a hot guy to hit on, but every time he moves towards the tables or the dancefloor he gets all these disconcerting once-overs that just make him want to retreat to the bar and sit quietly. So he does.

“Chicken,” Jensen says, and clucks. Genevieve punches him in the arm.

“Don’t mind them, they’re idiots,” Mark says. “Now, what sort of bloke do you fancy?”

“Not too muscular. Skinny’s good, though, and chubby’s good. Other than that I don’t know. I guess I’m not all that particular?”

Mark snorts like he doesn’t believe that for a second, then tosses back the cherry off his cocktail sword as if it was an oyster. “Barkeep!” he yells, thumping the bar for good measure until he gets the scary-looking tattooed dude’s attention. Then he smiles his charming smile. “Another, please?”

They spend a pleasant little while chatting—well, as far as it’s possible to chat over the noise of a bustling bar. Mark points out the least likely candidates he can spot for Jared’s attention, and after a couple of minutes Jared finally figures out that Mark is trying to show him that he _does_ have a type. The lesson is interrupted when Mark spots a guy who is apparently _just_ his own type, smallish, blond, late twenties maybe. “Excuse me,” he says, and off he goes, drink in hand, never to be seen again that night.

“I thought he’d never leave,” says a deep voice from Jared’s other side, and he turns to find an older man of maybe forty, maybe a little less sitting surprisingly close to him. He has dark, intent eyes, smile lines, and an itchy-looking five o’clock shadow. “Jeff Morgan,” he says, and offers his hand. “Friends call me JD. And you look mighty young to be in here. Then again, I wasn’t exactly legal when I first charmed my way into a joint like this.”

“I’m eighteen,” Jared says, “and this is root beer.”

Those dark eyes twinkle, and the man holds up his drink-free hand. “Okay, okay. So, you have a name?”

“Jared.”

“Jared, eighteen, and—” he tips his head back, takes a delicate sniff of the air the way a snobby wine connoisseur might sniff at a glass of red “—an Alpha. Not here to drink. So you’re looking to meet someone?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m someone.”

 _Oh, God,_ Jared realises. _We’re flirting. How come there were never any classes on that?_

“You, um, are, I guess. But I’m actually here under orders. I’m supposed to, uh, get a bl-blowjob, and describe how it f-feels.”

JD smirks. “Well, now. It seems creative writing class is a lot more fun now than it was in my day.” He lifts his glass to his lips, finishes his drink. Licks his lips. “You wanna join me out back?”

Jared swallows. He kinda does, yeah. It’s like this cold itch down his neck and back, chased by these warm shivers of wanting. He nods dumbly.

JD puts a hand in his pocket, comes up with a business card which he slides along the counter, past Jared, to Jensen. “I’ll return him in good condition!” he yells, and Jared’s embarrassed to see Jensen give him the thumbs-up.

So that’s how Jared finds himself in an out of order bathroom stall, pressed up against the door that won’t stay shut otherwise with JD Morgan’s tongue in his mouth and his hands on the older guy’s shaved-smooth chest under his shirt.

“You smell good,” JD rumbles, when the kiss breaks. He trails the tip of his nose along Jared’s jaw, down his neck.

 _That’s not for you,_ Jared thinks, and bats him away. JD chortles good-naturedly, and they get back with the programme.

JD’s kisses are firm, searching, not at all tentative, and it’s all Jared can do to keep up, to imitate. JD’s hands find his ass and knead roughly, and lust surges through Jared, makes him want to grab the other guy, fling him against the wall and pin him there. So he does that, and not only does he succeed in moving the larger man with ease but he makes the whole stall shake ominously with the impact. The door swings inwards, and Jared braces it irritably with one leg. Then he succeeds in getting a hand down JD’s pants, and this makes him inordinately happy. Nice cock, all hard for him. Then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Will you stroke this for me, while you suck me?”

JD raises a hand, touches Jared’s face, his cheek. Where his Alpha colours are riding high. “You bet,” he says. “But you’ll have to stand against the door again, so I have room to get on my knees.”

 _On his knees. God._ Jared’s blushing now, he’s sure of it. He’s so hot all over, so fucking desperate.

“Do you have a c-condom?”

“Yup,” JD says. “But I consider it optional, for oral. How about you?”

Jared shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never actually—”

“Yeah. Noticed that. Don’t sweat it. Short answer: the risk is mostly mine, and minimal unless I have sores in my mouth. I get tested twice a year and I’m clean as of last month. You gonna insist on a rubber?” His eyebrows go up.

Jared can only shrug, helpless in a fog of desire.

They move, and it’s all a blur. And then his dick’s in JD’s mouth and it’s all warm heat and suction and oh _fuck_ that’s so intense, it’s all Jared can do not to pull his hair, not to—He tightens his buttocks to remind himself not to thrust, not to fuck that sweet, wet mouth, because that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. It gets easier when he looks down, down past the sight of JD’s mouth stretched so wide around dick to see JD’s big, meaty paw wrapped around his own pink-tipped cock, rubbing and squeezing in time with his bobbing head. It’s perfect. Amazing. He’s not going to last, he’s—

“Oh—God—JD—I’m—”

He comes with a shout, thighs trembling, hips giving spasmodic little jerks, abs squeezing tight.

He emerges from the haze, panting, just in time to see JD spurt all over his fingers and one knee of his pants.

They're quiet through the process of cleaning up and fixing clothes. Jared doesn’t have the first clue what a guy’s supposed to say in these situations. Especially when he knows he just came really, really hard, and yet… he’s feeling oddly dissatisfied, as if he just ate a large meal but it wasn’t what his body actually needed. He thinks suddenly of Misha, and emotions fly through him one after the other, too fast to catch.

“Hey,” JD says, and kisses him. He tastes salty and—yeah. “You all right? Not freaking out? I freaked out my first time.” His smile is crooked, a little sad.

“I’m fine,” Jared insists, managing a smile of his own.

JD pats his shoulder. “Good to hear. I’m not expecting anything, I promise. But your friend has my card, in case you want to do this again. Or, you know, something a little more formal.” He winks. Then he’s walking away, whistling, towards the noise of the club.

Jared stares at himself in the grimy mirror over the sink until a couple of overly glittery people come in to claim the toilet stall he and JD just vacated. Then he heads back up the little flight of steps to find the others.

_Report back_ is harder than it sounds. Jared fidgets and postpones, he temporises and he rationalises and he tells himself he’s going to call and then just sits there staring at his phone until Terry comes in and all prospect of private conversations is over.

He wants to go see Misha in person, but intellectually he knows that would probably make things more difficult, not easier.

His avoidance-fu is so strong that he manages to complete the first draft of a term paper in record time, just from wanting to have something else to concentrate on. Huh. Guess his focus is kinda coming back again, then.

But, eventually, the guilt of leaving Misha hanging curls so tight in his stomach that he can't take it anymore. He waits until Terry’s girl of the week comes by to pick him up for a “date” which, from the guy’s smirk is probably of the bed-based variety, then seats himself, knees tucked tight against his chest, in the tiny square of floor space between his bed and his desk, where he feels safe like a kid in a fort. Pulls up Misha’s number and hits call.

“Jared,” Misha answers after two rings. “Just a minute.” Noises, movement. “Just putting my dinner in the oven.”

“I love that you cook,” Jared says, without thinking.

“Anyone can learn.” A pause, some creaking. “All right, I’m sitting down now, just in case you’re going to give me the results of your experiment.”

Jared sighs, scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m gonna try. I—God, Misha, this is embarrassing.”

“Why? Did you fall on your ass, elbow the guy in the face, yell your own name when you came?”

Despite himself, he laughs. “No. It’s just—you know. Sex stuff. Embarrassing.”

“Well,” Misha says slowly, “I’m hoping you and I can do ‘sex stuff’ at some stage. It’ll suck if you're all embarrassed about that. But you weren’t embarrassed that day in my kitchen, were you? When you were all over me?”

Jared’s breaths are coming faster, and he stretches his legs out to give his rapidly-filling dick some space. “Talking about it is… different.”

“Man up, kiddo.” And then, as if he can tell Jared’s poking his tongue out, “I heard that.”

“It felt… incredibly good. I had _no_ idea.”

“Mm-hmm. What did he look like?”

It’s not a question Jared was expecting, but Misha sounds interested, so why not? “Older. About forty, I think. Dark hair, dark eyes. Stubble. Tall and stocky but not, you know, too muscle-y. Nice smile.”

“Beta?”

“Yeah. Like Jensen, though—he could smell things. Tried to sniff my neck, but I… didn’t like that. Made me think of you, and he wasn’t you.”

“How did he smell?”

Jared shrugs. “Dunno. Too many smells around, didn’t seem important to try and tease his out. And we were in a bathroom. I got kinda bossy. He let me push him around a bit. Made me feel strong. Am I gonna want to do that with you? Physically dominate, I mean?”

“I don’t think you’ll feel the need. I’m Omega, after all, biology tells us I’m naturally subordinate. But there’s a charge that can come from that kind of play, and we might both enjoy experimenting with it.” His voice has gone a little rough, like he’s getting turned on too. “Tell me about what you did with him. Did you kiss?”

“Some. And I got kinda excited, got my hand on his cock.”

“Did you?”

“God. It’s definitely men I like. Then he got down on his knees, and I asked him to j-jack off while he… And I watched that while he sucked me. It was _intense_.” He pops open the button on his jeans, sighs with relief as he works down his zipper to ease the pressure on his hard cock. “I, uh, I guess it was over kinda quick, but he didn’t complain. Just kissed me and told me not to freak out.”

“You were freaking out?” Misha murmurs, low and throaty.

“Something—something happened and I… I didn’t feel satisfied any more. I mean I did, but I didn’t. It just felt like that hadn’t actually been… what I wanted? Like…” He claws at his denim-clad thigh like he can dig out the right words. “Like the pizza was there so I ate it, but then I find there’s leftover roast beef and I want that only there’s no room in my tummy.” He frowns at the food comparison, and the childish choice of word. “It wasn’t a guilt thing. I mean, you told me to do it, I didn’t feel like I’d betrayed you. It was more like… I don’t know. What—what was it you were hoping to find out from this, anyway?”

There’s a soft thump like someone’s head hitting pillows, and Jared imagines Misha’s lying on his bed. Not that he’s ever seen Misha’s bed, but he pictures it being big and cosy with some whacky multi-coloured crochet bedspread or something.

“Sometimes, from a situation like your little showdown with Kurt over me, there can be this sort of primal reaction where the victorious Alpha instinctively feels like he’s _won_ the Omega. And it’s not just the Alpha. I thought I felt something of it that day, actually, for a minute there. Then I got distracted… Anyway, a quick fuck would have let the tension ebb, but we didn’t do that. So I think your body—the part that is all Alpha, at any rate—thinks it has unfinished business with me. Laid on top of your… pre-existing attachment, that’s probably why you weren’t... satisfied. Not to sound too thoroughly egotistical, but your body wants me, and no one else will do.”

“That’s, um… So what do we do?” _Come over and fuck me_ , he wants Misha to say. Knows he won’t.

“We get you off, over the phone if possible, and see if that helps.”

Jared’s sure he must have gone beet red. “We—huh? Did I just hear that?”

Misha laughs his delighted laugh. 

“But aren’t we supposed to be—?”

“I think we’re formally out of the holding pattern and into _taking it slow_ territory now. I told my supervisor you asked me to marry you, by the way, and we are officially never allowed to be teacher and student again.”

“I asked you—?”

“Oh, darling, have you forgotten already?” Misha whines piteously, before pausing to laugh again. “You wanted me to elope with you, remember? What do you think that word means?”

“Oh.” Yep, still blushing. “So, over the phone, then? Like now? You’re gonna talk dirty to me or something?”

“It’s a two-way street, you know.”

Jared chews his lip a moment. “Does it start with ‘what are you wearing?’”

“If you like. I’m wearing a lime-green t-shirt with a picture of two glistening cherries on it. Got it from a womenswear department somewhere. The chinos are men’s, though. Khaki. Unbuttoned to reveal my delightful space alien boxer shorts.”

Jared makes an approving noise, picturing the scene. “Are you on your bed right now?”

“Uh huh. You?”

“On the floor, leaning back against the wall. Wearing jeans and a button-down. Uh, it’s this sparkly pink and purple plaid. For line-dancing, I think. Not that I… Yeah. I, uh, had to undo my fly a while back, too.”

“Mmm. Bet you’d be smelling me right now, if you were here. Wouldn’t you? Dragging your nose and mouth all over my neck, my shoulder, my collarbones.”

“God, yes.”

“You’d nibble. Eventually, you’ll want to bite, to mark me.”

Jared hisses in a startled breath. Because that _does_ sound good, it really does.

“I’ll let you,” Misha says, matter-of-factly. “It’ll feel good in a way that’s all Alpha.”

“Yeah. I remember, Richard had to tell me off because I had my teeth against his neck.”

Misha chuckles. “A lot of people want to make Richard their chew toy. He has that effect on people.”

“And you don’t?”

“They tend to suspect that beneath my sweet exterior I might be kind of tart. Possibly even dangerously acidic.”

“How do I smell, to you?”

Misha gives his thoughtful hum. “A little smokey. Kind of wild. Like open spaces. And something herby, like rosemary. That’s all I remember. Except that I really, really dig it. And that it actually goes spicy, like some awful romance novel cliché, when you’re aroused.”

“I can’t smell it,” Jared says, turning his head and hunching his shoulders to sniff. “I just smell like me.”

“So you’ll have to take my word for it. Tell me about your nipples. Are they sensitive?”

Jared somehow manages to choke on his own breath. “What?”

“Your nipples, Jared. Do you enjoy playing with them? Pinching them, rolling them, tickling them? Is it going to do anything for you when I put my mouth there?”

Jared sucks in a harsh breath, but he’s already unbuttoning his shirt, scrabbling to bare his chest. He pinches one tight little nipple between thumb and forefinger, feels a pleasant spike of not-quite-pain. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I think that would be…” He licks his fingertip, uses it to rub at his nipple, imagining as hard as he can that it’s Misha Collins’s tongue. Groans.

“Bet you it feels even better when it’s someone else,” Misha says. “I wish it was your hand on my dick right now.”

Jared whimpers, head tapping against the wall behind him. After that, he can’t get his own dick out fast enough, hisses when his hand curls tight around the warm flesh. Strokes. “My hands—bigger than yours—” he gasps out.

“Uh huh. You got lube there, Jared?”

“Yeah, but—I kinda like—”

“Yeah, me too. Sometimes. Friction. Cock against cock can be nice that way too. Better in the shower. Steam and soap bubbles and slippery skin.”

Jared pictures it, pictures them naked together under a hot spray. Then his mind skips a track. “Tell me about—tell me about fucking? That’s something you do, right?”

The noise Misha makes is half-groan, half-plea. “It’s been far too long, actually. I wonder if you’d let me ride you the first time, or if you’d be all… oh… growly and possessive, pinning me down, filling me up…”

That’s all it takes. That’s all it fucking takes and Jared’s so close to the edge he can taste it. “God, Misha…”

“You’ll lose it fast, your knot will form and we’ll be locked together while you come and come and come… Fuck, Jared, I want you to know how that feels. You want that, want to stretch me out on your knot, come inside me again and again?”

Jared can’t answer him. The world’s gone white and for a long, long moment he’s coming so hard he can’t breathe. It _shatters_ him, and he’s profoundly grateful for the wall at his back to slump against.

He’s just getting his breath back under control, starting to blink his dorm room back into focus, when he hears Misha fucking _come_ and his dick gives a last feeble twitch of pleasure.

Then comes a sound that he’s pretty sure is Misha sucking come off his fingers one by one, and oh, fuck, does he have it bad.

“Mmmmm,” Misha says, a long and satisfied purr. “That was gooood, and not just for the novelty factor. We’re going to be hot stuff, you and me.”

Jared knows better than to correct his grammar. Instead, he belatedly reaches for the box of Kleenex on the dresser and attempts to clean himself up, awkwardly holding the phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder. “That was better than a blowjob,” he whispers.

Misha snorts. “I think more variables have changed than just the method of physical stimulation, don’t you? Further research is indicated.” He sighs contentedly, which makes Jared imagine him stretching like a lazy, glossy cat in the sun. “Now, I want you to pay attention to your mental state over the next couple of days. See if anything’s changed. Report back.”

“Do you—do you talk much to Mark, about me?”

“Smalltalk stuff mostly. I don’t want to press him for details that impinge on your privacy. We do talk about… hints we’ve picked up about things you might not know. So one of us can enlighten you. I hope that’s okay. I think it’s for the best.”

Jared’s not sure, that kinda makes him feel like a kid. On the other hand, it sounds like he tells Mark a lot more personal stuff about him and Misha than the other two ever reveal to each other about him. “Do Alphas cuddle?” he wonders suddenly. “Is that—done?”

“Do you _want_ to cuddle?”

“Kinda do, yeah.”

“There you go, then. And I’d like that, too. But right now I probably should run and check on my dinner. You’re okay, you’re still smiling?”

Jared abruptly realises that he is. “Yeah, I’m good. Have a good evening, enjoy your food.”

“You too. Bye, Jared.”

“Bye.”

 _I love you,_ he thinks. But it’s probably just the awesome phone sex talking, right?

“So,” Jensen says, idly passing the miniature football to Jared from his position sprawled out on his bed, “summer. You sticking around?”

“Not sure I have much of a choice.”

“Sure you do. You could hitchhike across America. Hop a Greyhound Bus to a random town and get a job pumping gas. Wander over to Hollywoodland and see if someone will take you on to play immensely tall monsters in horror movies. Go out to—” The recitation ends with an _oof_ as Jared’s throw gets him right in the chest.

“I’m not that adventurous. Unless you wanna come with?”

“Nah, I have a summer internship thing.”

“You’re not taking any kind of break?”

“Becoming a physical therapist is a pretty big deal. So come on, what would you like to do?”

Jared sighs, catches the ball one-handed when it comes sailing back, leans more comfortably into the rickety sofa. “Get a job off-campus where they’ll actually give me enough hours to get by. Persuade you to get a bigger place so I can move in with you. Earn minimum wage and go on cheap dates with Misha every Friday night.”

“I could move,” Jensen allows. “This place is kinda crappy.” He sits up, points a finger at Jared. “First thing, though: get the better job. I’m not taking in any freeloaders, no matter how much fun they might be to have around.”

Jared beams. He has a _plan_. And it’s not completely stupid, or Jensen would tell him so.

His concentration _does_ improve. Well, his daydreams are dirtier, full of Misha’s voice saying filthy things, but they aren't the persistent distractions they were before. They fill up idle moments, rather than taking over time he’s supposed to be listening in class, talking to friends, or hitting the books. He still wants—needs—longs—to see more of Misha, but it’s not an _itch_ the way it was, it doesn’t drive him _mad_.

“Kinda wish I hadn’t told you that,” he confesses to Misha during one of their phone calls that are apparently no longer forbidden.

The sound Misha makes is a little amused, a little pained. “Believe me, Jared, I know what you mean.” He sighs hugely. “You just… you just have to understand that this is going to be big. All-consuming. It might burn itself out, who knows, but for a while there it’s going to be… I can feel it, Jared. It’s going to be very intense and possibly very destructive. And I’m ashamed at how relieved I am to know there’s just no way I can make us wait three years until you’re safely out of college.”

“Well, then,” Jared says stubbornly, “perhaps we should just rip the fucking Band-Aid off right now. Get it over with.”

Misha tells him that’s not a good idea, but he doesn’t sound real convinced anymore.

With a month to spare before the end of the school year, Jared finds a job. In a big and tall men’s clothing store, of all places. One that actually caters to guys who are tall but not big. Jared may not technically be tall enough for the store’s definition of “tall”, but he’s getting there, and his legs are already long enough that he has to look for pants longer than the standard 34” inseam. His new employee discount is going to come in handy.

“Right,” he tells Jensen. “Apartment hunting.”

“Good thing I already gave the landlord notice,” Jensen says, and Jared rolls his eyes at this revelation.

Genevieve--who is already putting together her preliminary wardrobe for her summer trip to Paris--is delighted for him, and says so about fifteen times while hugging him within an inch of his life.

Misha, whom he bumps into on campus, is more reserved, but there’s approval in his blue eyes and his smile is crinkly and warm. “Congratulations,” he says. His eyebrows lift fractionally like he’s being sneaky. “Might see you around, then.”

Jared itches to make contact, to clasp his elbow for an instant or something, but he knows it’s better not to take the risk. He settles for smiling and mumbling something vaguely affirmative. Has to lock his neck to keep from looking back as he walks away.

“Not coming home?” his mom tells his voicemail when she hears the news from Big Bro. “Jared, I… I’m sorry about how things turned out, I really am. Can’t we talk about this?”

Jared saves the message, though he’s not sure he’ll ever listen to it again. He hasn’t revisited the last few she’s left.

Summer comes, and Jared happy dances over his slightly elevated GPA, says goodbye to Terry, and packs up his stuff. He and Jensen have scored a furnished two-bedroom apartment that’s actually kinda nice. It’s a little further from campus—and from Misha’s place—than he would have liked, but, hey, he’ll get a bike or something. Just as soon as he learns to make his budget work with all the new expenses of living in his own shared apartment rather than a college dorm where almost everything’s provided. For now, though, he’s splurging on a cab so he doesn’t have to make multiple trips to ferry all his stuff.

He arrives at the new place, panting from the effort of carrying far too many bags and cases up far too many flights of stairs, to find Jensen waiting for him with a smile and a bottle of wine.

“Housewarming gift from your beau,” he says, waving the bottle. “Candy, too. Like a fruit basket, only… candy.” He waggles his eyebrows. “You started putting out and not told your uncle Jensen?”

For answer, Jared drops an over-stuffed backpack on his new room-mate’s foot. Jensen laughs, puts the wine down on the kitchen counter, and returns to help haul all Jared’s shit into his new room.

Which has a queen-size bed. _Bliss_. And a desk he can actually fit his legs under.

“Obviously,” Jensen says, “we must pig out on candy and calibrate your capacity for wine. A young man needs to know how much he may safely imbibe.”

“Not even sure I _like_ wine. Sheltered upbringing, remember?”

“Are you sure you like pizza? Because you’re paying tonight.”

Yeah, he’s going to enjoy living here.

Misha takes him on a hot air balloon ride for his birthday. Jared’s kind of anxious about the cost, and whether Misha will be offended if Jared tries to pay him back, but when they actually get to the take-off site it’s obvious that the crew of the balloon they’re going up in are Misha’s old friends, so Jared’s pretty confident he got a good deal.

The ride is excellent, smooth like they’re just floating, not having to fight gravity at all. The scenery glides by, and Jared whoops into the sky, Misha’s arm warm at his back and his smile as bright as the sunrise breaking all around them.

When they kiss, it feels like the whole world must see them, and Jared kinda likes that feeling (even if he’s actually pretty sure, intellectually, that no one’s got binoculars trained on them or anything). Afterwards, Jared holds him close and doesn’t even try to get past his jacket to slobber and sniff all over his neck. Even if he kinda wants to, like always.

There’s a toast before landing, and the guys politely fail to notice when Misha fills Jared’s glass with the champagne instead of the soda. “To us, and to a good journey,” he says, and they clink flutes. Jared’s never been involved in a real toast before, but he thinks that’s a good one.

When they get back to town, they go for brunch at a cafe and talk about pretty much nothing but hot air balloons and _wow_. Misha’s foot is pressed against his under the table.

“You busy next weekend? Saturday night, specifically?”

Jared reviews his commitments on his phone. “Not unless someone calls in sick at the store.”

“I have some people coming over for a grown-up slumber party.” He pauses, frowns. “A _very_ grown-up slumber party, knowing what passes for decorum among my friends. I’m hoping you can make it.”

“Will Kurt be there?”

Misha sighs. “We’re still repairing that breach. Katie is _not_ impressed with him. It should just be you, and perhaps Robert, representing Alpha-dom.”

Jared relaxes abruptly. Nods. “I like Robert.”

“Most people do.”

“And Richard.”

Misha’s lips twitch. “You just want to sniff him up.” 

“Can I help it if I have taste?”

He gets a poke in the ribs for that, and they both laugh. Jared’s just about to ask if they can go somewhere and be alone for a few minutes when his cell alarm goes to remind him he’s due at work shortly. He groans, and Misha squeezes his arm reassuringly.

They walk together until their paths home diverge, hug quickly, and go their respective ways.

Genevieve emails to gush she’s fallen in love with Paris, with her little apartment, with the language school she’s studying at, and with a charming French boy she met while buying a baguette. Jared wishes her well, and privately hopes it doesn’t hurt her too much when the shine wears off. She has big feelings, Genevieve, they come on strong and fast and leave her powerless in their wake. His arms might be long, but he’s going to have a hard time giving comforting hugs from across the Atlantic. But who knows? Perhaps she’ll stay, marry baguette boy, become fluent in French, get some glamourous job in the beautiful city and never look back. Or she’ll promptly get over baguette boy and move on to leave her high-heeled mark on Belgium, Barbados, Britain or Belize.

Jensen asks cynically whether she is actually able to communicate with the French boy in any meaningful, verbal manner. Jared wrinkles his nose and tells him he’s an asshole. Then they arm wrestle for who has to cook. Jensen loses, but Jared suspects that’s deliberate on account of Jensen being rather health-conscious and Jared’s cooking sometimes looking suspiciously, uh, toxic.

So they talk while Jensen does amazing things with his wok. Somehow all Jared’s nervousness about being invited to a social gathering where they’ll be out as an official couple to all Misha’s friends melts away beneath Jensen’s good-natured mockery about how he’s being welcomed into the pack. Jared decides that’s a nice way to think about it. Like an extended family of wolves, even if it is just a myth that the genes that make some people Alpha and Omega and give others a heightened sense of smell like Jensen’s are an ancient inheritance from the werewolf creatures of legend.

They eat and watch the game and Jared feels supremely content, even though it’s just an ordinary day. Here he is, paying rent, earning money, dating (kinda). Hanging out with his best friend. Being an adult, contributing member of society.

 _Magic_.

Richard opens the door and his face breaks into a wide grin when he recognises Jared. There’s a brief silence, Jared looking down into that pleasant, open face like they don’t need words. And then Richard’s in his arms, humming happily and offering his neck. “Missed you,” he says. “Been hoping Mish’s gonna keep you around.”

He smells like calm oceans and sweet tea. He smells like someone else’s husband. Jared lets him go only reluctantly, but then remembers where he is and who else is here.

“Come on,” Richard says, like he’s reading Jared’s mind, “let’s go find him.” And he takes his hand and leads him into the house, kicking the door shut as he goes.

For once, Misha isn’t in the kitchen. He’s warily supervising the setting up of a large plasma TV in a corner of his lounge, fussing over every little item and doodad and book that gets moved or knocked out of the way. Jared comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Misha’s waist. He’s wearing lurid green PJs with happily cavorting dinosaurs on them, and the warmth of his skin comes through the thin cotton. Misha gives a pleased hum and relaxes against Jared’s chest. For a wonderful moment, Jared just closes his eyes and fills his nostrils with the scent of his man. _Mine,_ he thinks, and wonders whether he should feel guilty at his presumption.

“Did you buy that just for the occasion?” he murmurs, by way of distraction.

“Borrowed. Belongs to Richard and Robert. They live locally.”

“Cool. So the plan is—movies?”

“Movies and drinking and blankets and corn chip crumbs everywhere. Perhaps a game of Truth or Dare when it gets late. Or Spin the Bottle, maybe.” And then, as if he’s said too much, he goes on quickly, “I won’t play, of course. Wouldn’t be wise.”

Jared shuffles awkwardly. “And Richard? Will he sit out too?”

Misha snorts. “No, I don’t think so. They—they get a charge from that kind of thing.” He turns in Jared’s arms, and his smile is large and mischievous. “Every couple has these disgustingly sweet little quirks,” he says, and presses a quick kiss to Jared’s lips. “We’ll have time enough to find some of our own, I promise.”

The FBI warnings on a DVD appear on the big screen, and a small cheer goes up from the four or five couples in the room.

“All right, everyone,” Misha calls, clapping his hands, “PJ time!”

Because Jared is a genius, he simply put on his pajama pants under his jeans. So he doesn’t have to line up for privacy in Misha’s bedroom or bathroom, just has to take off his shoes and socks and jeans and strip down to his t-shirt. He’s sure it’s not any kind of sexy display, but Misha watches closely all the same and Jared finds he likes that.

Misha has a section of floor all marked out, with cushions and pillows and a comforter. Also a pair of Cokes. They sit, pleasantly hip to hip, cover up their legs, and somehow don’t wind up immediately making out. The DVD finishes running through the stupid noisy menu animation and promptly starts all over again. It appears to be some kind of action movie about a man on the run from… something. There are explosions.

Everyone returns in due course, attired in various levels of lounging style and comfort ranging from resplendent royal blue satin (Sebastian) to plaid flannel sleep pants and a Grateful Dead tee (Robert, surprisingly enough). Jared tries to focus on the roll-call as Misha helpfully whispers the name of each new arrival in his ear, but he’s distracted by the tantalising thought of feeling Misha’s breath on other parts of his body.

Someone finds the remote control, someone else hands out beers which conveniently bypass Jared. Misha declines in favour of his soda. The overhead lights are switched off, leaving them just enough illumination from the next room not to spill shit everywhere.

The movie is so fast-paced it’s difficult to follow, and Misha keeps making disapproving remarks about the stilted dialogue and clumsy exposition, but mostly it’s good fun and there are some laughs, too. Halfway through, Misha excuses himself to go make popcorn, which Jared thinks is just about the best plan ever. Until Misha slips in between his legs to lean back against his chest, like that time on the couch only without all the misery and snot. And with more happy crunching. 

Eventually, the movie ends and there’s an orderly exodus as people take popcorn glasses and empty bottles to the kitchen, fetch more snacks and more alcohol, line up for the bathroom. Those seem like good ideas, so Jared joins in.

He returns to find Misha stretched out, angled so he can see the TV. He smiles at Jared, lifts one corner of the comforter so he can crawl into their makeshift bed. Misha rolls onto his side, and Jared slots in against his back. Wonders idly whether Misha picks these positions to make Jared feel larger, physically superior, and whether he should be quite so touched by that if it’s the case. 

The others file in again slowly, laughing and chatting.

The next DVD is apparently Sebastian’s choice, some kind of short film, in French, with subtitles. It’s beautiful, and kind of pornographic in places. At one point, Sebastian loudly tells off one of the characters. In French, of course. Jared took Spanish in high school, so it’s completely lost on him, but Misha’s little chortle suggests he gets it. Jared actually gets sufficiently engrossed in the movie that he doesn’t really register that Misha’s moved, or that he’s making overtures, until they hit a calm point in the story. That’s when it hits him that Misha’s hand is warm on his chest, one finger tracing lazy, suggestive circles, while Misha’s gaze is fixed thoughtfully on his face. So that’s when Jared kisses him. He vaguely wonders if his technique has improved any since the last time, but it's not worth interrupting the wonderful heat of Misha’s mouth, Misha’s hands on him, Misha’s thigh pushing in between his own to find out.

There’s new sounds in the room, someone speaking English, but Jared can’t focus on it, it’s just background noise for him. His head’s full of Misha, and the heady scents in the room: Misha, Omegas, sex. 

Misha halts things when it starts feeling overwhelming, _urgent_ , and they just hold each other tight, panting into the room, lit by the flickering of the television screen.

“So,” he murmurs, “do you often throw orgies at your house?”

Misha snickers. “Never you mind.” 

Jared rolls his eyes, spots that Robert’s on his feet.

“Not a huge fan of foreign films, Sebby, sorry,” Robert says, as an annoyed Sebastian clicks his tongue and pauses the DVD. Everyone ignores his grumbling about how they were just getting to the best part. “Besides, the food in this place is too wholesome. Think I’m gonna go hit up a drive-through. Anyone for burgers?”

There’s applause from at least one quarter, and then people start calling out orders.

In Robert’s absence, Richard comes crawling under the comforter on Jared’s other side, and he’s suddenly enveloped in the scent of two happy Omegas. Total bliss.

“Hi again!” Richard says, and lands a great, wet, smacking kiss on his cheek before laying his head on Jared’s chest and literally starting to purr. It’s hilarious, and kind of adorable.

“Hey, Misha?”

“Jared?”

“Richard smells… taken. Involved. Married.”

“Yeah, he does. He is. Well, not married. ‘Mated’ is the word generally used by those charming Beta scientists who make their careers writing monographs about us. They say that feeling committed to someone causes your biochemistry to change, subtly altering the scent.”

“Oh.” He’s a little disappointed to hear that. “You don’t smell that way.”

“Actually, he kinda does,” Richard says. 

Jared’s eyebrows go up, and something warm and precious sparks to life in his belly. _Misha smells taken. And Misha doesn't mind._

“Maybe you just can’t smell it because it kinda makes him smell like you,” Richard goes on, “and you’re _used_ to _you?”_

“So, what I’m smelling on you is actually like an echo of another Alpha’s scent?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Do we smell taken, too, Robert and me? Can Alphas smell taken?”

“Yup. It’s part of the reason you’re not frightening.”

Jared’s mouth falls open. That’s—oddly insulting. Misha leans over to kiss him, which instantly restores his good mood.

 _Mine,_ he thinks fondly, as he kisses back.

Jared’s a little surprised when—long after Robert returns with a huge supply of burgers and fries, long after Sebastian challenges them to a game of strip poker with such a fierce look in his eye that no one will take him up on it and they play charades instead, and he still wins—Misha rises, collects up the comforter, helps Jared to his feet, and leads him, picking his way between drowsy bodies, to his room.

“You can sleep here on your own,” Misha says, and has to stop to stifle a yawn, “or we can sleep cuddled up with the group.”

He thinks about it, about how comfortable that big soft bed looks versus the floor out there and the noise of all those other people breathing and talking or whatever. Knows he _should_ take the damn bed. Or be noble and make Misha take it, would that be the more adult thing to do? But, damn it, he wants to keep close. “Group,” he says.

“No fucking either way,” Misha says, waving one finger, and Jared nods. “Just so we’re clear. But feel free to jerk off in my bathroom if you need to.”

Jared’s nineteen. He takes the advice.

His toothbrush is a little worse for wear for having been wrapped in a tissue and shoved in the pocket of his jeans, but he makes do. It’s worth it for the goodnight kiss he gets after sliding into their makeshift bed by the couch next to Misha. Then someone kills the last of the lights, and then there is cuddling and the calming smell of Misha close to him, so very very _right_ , and then exhaustion claims him and he knows only warmth and nice dreams.

When he wakes, it’s late enough in the morning that he can see Misha propped upon one elbow beside him in the light streaming in through the thin grey curtains.

“Hi,” he manages, half-croak, on the second attempt.

Misha leans in to nuzzle against his neck, murmurs a greeting and something about coffee, and gets up. Jared watches blearily as he picks his way across the floor between the sleeping bags and various outflung limbs of his house-guests.

Some untold minutes later, he jerks awake from a pleasant doze to the kind of raucous noise that no one should have to deal with first thing in the morning. After a suitable interval of blinking and forcing his brain to work, he discerns that the noise is Misha, wearing a red and white checked dish towel like a necktie and banging a large saucepan repeatedly with a wooden spoon. “Rise and shine, my lovelies!” he cries gleefully, grinning. “Coffee’s hot!”

There is general groaning and, from one corner, what Jared strongly suspects is filthy swearing _en français_. 

Oh, well. Best to beat the rush for the bathroom, huh?

Jared’s just settling into the new semester when he’s called to an appointment with the dean. Someone actually comes to fetch him from one of his lectures, which is really alarming. Then it’s a long walk over to the admin building, and his anxiety only seems to build with every step that takes him away from the relative safety of his classmates. Something must have happened, right? Deans don’t randomly call you out of class to tell you you’re wonderful. The grad student leading the way doesn’t tell him anything more than that the dean wants to see him, but she doesn’t act like it’s a big deal, so that’s something, isn’t it?. His nerves aren’t at all allayed when he’s lead to the correct corridor just in time to see a rather solemn-looking Misha just emerging from the dean’s office.

“Just tell the truth,” Misha murmurs, passing close as the grad student disappears out of sight. Jared can’t make anything of his scent beyond the fact that he isn’t happy, which is obvious just from his expression. “Don’t panic, don’t lie, it’ll be fine.”

Jared swallows hard. Misha’s gone before he can reply.

His tentative knock seems to echo ominously all up and down the thickly-carpeted hallway.

Then there’s a man at the door, ushering Jared in. He’s younger than Jared somehow expected, hair receding but not yet starting to go grey, his suit crisp and navy blue. He doesn’t look like an academic, though Jared has been slowly coming to realise that very few of them actually do resemble the stereotyped image of tweed, myopia, and twenty-year-old-hairstyles. “Mister Padalecki,” he says, and offers his hand. They shake. Jared hopes his palm isn’t too obviously sweaty. “Dean Singer. Have a seat.”

So they sit.

It’s a while before the dean says anything. Jared struggles not to fidget. _Imagines_ himself fidgeting so he doesn’t have to do it in real life and be obvious.

“So,” Dean Singer says at last, “certain reports have lately reached my ears.” He gestures frenetically, as if thinking Jared might not be able to recognise his ears if they’re not pointed out. “About your relationship with Misha Collins. What would you say is the nature of that relationship? Now be honest.”

 _Just tell the truth_ , Misha said. Jared takes a deep breath. “We’re… courting, I guess.” Inside, he’s kind of rattled. Someone squealed on them to the Dean. Someone’s trying to make things difficult for them, maybe to split them up…

“In the tiresome sporting metaphors of the day, have you been anywhere near home base?”

Jared wets his lips. Thinks about coming his brains out with Misha on the phone. Thinks about getting his dick sucked by some guy because Misha told him to. Wonders if that counts as sex, and if so where it fits on the old-fashioned baseball diamond. “We’ve made out some, a few times. But no, you know, genital contact?”

“Okay,” Singer says, scratching his head. “Okay. I can work with that. Now, would you say there was any inappropriate behaviour while you were still in Professor Collins’s class?”

Jared frowns, recalling. “I followed him around some. And at Thanksgiving, he sat on my lap, let me sniff his neck.” He looks at the guy, wonders what that means to him. He’s Beta, he might understand, but not from experience. Jared’s no longer sure he envies that.

“Ah,” Singer says, swinging around in his office chair a little. “Just prior to Thanksgiving is when Professor Collins went through official channels, so we don’t need to worry so much. But before Thanksgiving? No stolen kisses, no flirting, nothing of that nature?”

“No, sir.”

Singer picks up a pen, toys with it. Leans back in his chair and just looks at Jared. It’s not pleasant. The man might not have started yelling yet, but Jared still feels as if axes might fall any second. He can’t tell whether Singer has believed a single word he’s said, doesn’t know how much trouble he could potentially be in here, though he can kinda guess what could happen to Misha.

“You’re the only Alpha we’ve ever had at this institution, and there are those who would very much like to exploit that for the publicity value.”

Jared’s muscles tighten, trying to stiffen his already rigid posture. “Exploit” is not a pretty word. 

“Not my department, I’ll let you fend them off on your own if that’s your choice. But the feeling is very much that we’d like to keep you around. And there’s a good deal of sympathy for the… special circumstances you and those like you face. So this is what I’d like us to agree.” He holds up his hand, counts off fingers with his pen. “First, that you won’t flaunt the relationship in public.”

Jared relaxes a fraction. 

“Second, that if the media should get wind of it, you’ll refuse comment in the first instance and let the university handle it.”

That’s not so bad, either. It would be his preference anyway. 

“Third, that you won’t take any more English classes while Professor Collins is still teaching here.”

His breath catches at that. It’s an effort not to react, not to crumple or cry or otherwise show how much of a relief it is that Misha clearly hasn’t lost his job.

“I’ll let you know if I think of any more rules. Can you agree to those?”

Jared nods, mentally crossing English off his potential majors list. The sacrifice is entirely worth it.

“In exchange, I’m going to call on some _very_ old regulations which happen still to be on the books in order to give your relationship some kind of official stamp. Such a relationship isn’t against local law, and the policies that prohibit it don’t carry the same weight as the older—well, I won’t bore you with the details. Do you have any concerns you’d like to raise, while you’re here?”

Jared blinks. Then he blurts. “Who, uh, brought this to your attention, sir?”

Singer taps his pen three times on the oak desktop. “Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Let’s just say it was a concerned member of the public.”

“Not a concerned member of the faculty or student body,” Jared murmurs.

“Can’t comment, sorry.”

The deflection might as well be a full confirmation. Jared can only think of one member of the public with the balls to be 'concerned' over his and Misha's relationship. But he puts that aside for later.

“So we’re not in trouble?” It kinda feels like tempting fate, but he needs to know, needs it spelled out.

Singer’s eyebrows knit together, and suddenly his disapproval is obvious. “It would have been better for all concerned had you not begun this thing at the time and in the way you did. But we have a good deal of sympathy for your situation and, frankly, are bending over backwards to keep everyone out of all possible hot water here. Be good and don’t make me regret it.”

“Yes, sir.” He feels a weird urge to laugh from sheer relief, but contains it. “Thank you, sir.”

By the time he makes it to Misha’s place that night—uninvited but, he has a feeling, expected—Jared’s reached some conclusions, and he’s fuming.

“It was Kurt,” he snarls, as soon as Misha opens the door. “Wasn’t it?”

Misha steps back, waves him graciously into his home. “That would be my guess, yes.”

“I want to punch something. You got any sentimental attachment to this wall?”

“No, but…” His hands find Jared’s fists, hold them. “Let’s not break anything, huh? Especially your bones. I might just be a little sentimental about _them_.”

It isn't anything Jared means to do. It just happens. His arms twist smoothly out of Misha’s grip and then he’s pinning Misha against the wall by the wrists. And then they’re kissing and it’s good, so good, Misha’s making this pleased little vibration of sound that makes Jared want to growl and pounce and fondle forever… Misha’s lips open, and then there’s teeth--Misha’s teeth--nipping at Jared’s lower lip. Impossible then not to press their bodies together, not to rub and grind against this wonderful person he loves so much.

“Mine,” he says against Misha’s lips, his stubbly jaw, his cheeks. “Mine, mine, mine. Fucking Kurt can go jump in a lake. _Mine_.”

Misha laughs, squirms until he gets his arms free to wrap around Jared’s neck. “Takes more than growling it to make it so.”

Okay, so _that_ probably shouldn’t be the thing that pushes Jared from _interested_ to _hard enough to pound nails_ , but there it is. Must be the Alpha in him, responding to being challenged. Whatever. He growls again, tips Misha’s head gently to one side and helps himself to a nose-full of rich scent from the pulse point at the base of Misha’s throat. 

Misha climbs him like a tree, hauls himself up and wraps his legs around Jared’s hips. Jared grunts and grinds as he finds their groins now perfectly aligned for tasty, tasty friction.

“Okay,” Misha breathes, just a tad hoarse now as pleasure takes hold. “Starting to develop a sentimental attachment to this wall now.” The silence thrums between them a long, horrible-wonderful moment. “But I’m thinking we should move this along to the bedroom.”

Jared is so completely in favour of this plan that it barely registers that Misha is, in fact, a full-grown man. They make it to the bedroom with barely a stumble, and then he’s laying Misha down, crawling on top of him. Trying to kiss and remove clothing simultaneously.

He pulls Misha’s t-shirt up and sees those tight little nipples, all the memories of That Time on the Phone slam into him and he’s bending his head with a groan, mouthing and kissing and sucking—

“Oh, fuck,” Misha says, hand tightening in Jared’s hair. “Jared? Jared? Another few minutes and I’m not going to be able to stop, so let’s agree what we want now, okay?”

Jared lifts his head reluctantly, looks up into those bright, bright blue eyes. He chews his lip a moment. “Just wanna touch you and kiss you and fuck you, Misha. Make us both feel good.” He frowns, remembers, goes for his pocket. “I’ve got—” The special Alpha condoms provided by student health are a splash of colour in his shaking hands. They seem innocuous now, where before they’d felt like they were glowing or radioactive or something, obvious and embarrassing. As if anyone so much as walking by him on campus must sense that he was carrying a generous supply of Lunar Lovers Deluxe in Large. “Have you got—?”

“Top drawer,” Misha says, pointing. “We’re on the same page, so take your damn boots off already,” he adds, in a playful growl.

So Jared pulls away from him, not without an effort, sits up and starts removing his footwear. Misha crawls up the bed, reaches into his nightstand drawer and comes up with a bottle of lube. And _fuck_ , they are really doing this, aren’t they? He’s just a little bit terrified and a lot turned on. His dick’s completely undaunted by his nerves, however.

Misha’s getting naked, which is even more distracting than the lube. Jared’s hands fumble, claw-like and unheeded, at his own buttons and zippers as he watches Misha wriggle free of his clothes without getting up off the bed. God, so much bare skin. And that ass is much, much finer than anyone would have guessed, all perky and firm... Jared’s not normally any kind of ass-worshipper, not like some guys he knows, but he’s pretty sure Misha’s ass is well worthy of a temple or two built in its honour. 

When Misha reaches out to him, Jared goes, falling gracelessly into his arms, gasping at the shock of their bare chests meeting, the unexpected heat of it. Their mouths crash together, overwhelming him with enough flavours and smells to make even his Alpha senses spin, and yet it’s not enough to stop him noticing that it’s Misha’s hard cock trailing a damp line along his thigh, tickling at the hairs there. And above it all, pervasive and delicious and wonderful, is the scent of happy, aroused Omega. Intoxicating. He groans and writhes and doesn’t know where to put his hands first. How do people _do_ this and not go mad?

Misha’s hands on his ass--kneading and squeezing and playing--are distractingly good. He thrusts his hips helplessly under their grip, whines when his dick rubs along Misha’s groin.

“Oh, fuck it,” Misha groans, after a particularly vigorous round of grinding. He rolls them, scrabbles for the lube. “Let’s not do this right. Let’s do this hard and fast and fucking _now_.”

Jared so isn’t complaining. Not when Misha looks at his dick like he’s drooling for it. Not when Misha slicks up his fingers and shoves a couple up his own ass with a little groan of discomfort that quickly becomes soft sounds of pleasure. Not when Jared’s rolling on a condom under Misha’s close but non-critical scrutiny. Not when Misha pushes him flat on his back and climbs up to straddle him. And certainly not when Misha reaches behind him, lifts up, fits Jared’s gift-wrapped glans against his hole, and gives this weird little hip shimmy as he--oh god--sinks down all the fucking way onto Jared’s cock. 

Jared has no basis of comparison for the heat and intensity of actually being _inside_ Misha. He tries to articulate how amazing it feels, but the only sound that escapes his mouth is a long, high whine.

“Ahhhh,” Misha says, leaning back a little and looking smugly down his body and up Jared’s. “This is not—” he rocks, and squeezes, making Jared’s eyes threaten to roll up in his head “—how you’re supposed to do it—” another rock, another thought-stealing rush of tightheatpleasure “—by the way.” He wags a finger. “Naughty, naughty. Promise you’ll never—” oh, fuck, he’s actually going for it now, finding a rhythm. Jared’s fingers are so tight on his hips that he’s sure he’ll leave marks, and it’s all he can do not to flip them over, pound Misha into the mattress. “—never break in a virgin like this?”

It takes a while for this to translate, and when it does Jared’s frown doesn’t clear. “Don’t want anyone else,” he manages mulishly. “Never will.”

Misha’s smile is like the sun coming out from on high. He leans down for a kiss, and that’s it, something possessive and dominant rears up from deep inside Jared. He rolls them, pushing Misha’s spread legs up as high as they’ll go so he can burrow deep, drag his cock in and out and in. He’s not sure whether he likes the claustrophobic inwards push better, or the lazy withdrawal with Misha’s body clasping at him like it never wants to let go. He just knows he doesn’t want to stop. Needs the next thing, the next. It’s all good, so good. His nostrils fill with the wonderfulness that is Misha, and his mouth, too. He nibbles at Misha’s neck, his collarbone. Misha’s mewls out his encouragement, hands clawing once more down Jared’s back, reaching for his ass, tickling, stroking, rubbing.

There’s very little thought involved on Jared’s part. He doesn’t remember what he’s read about angles and positions and prostates and making it good for the other party. He just ruts, rough and urgent. He must be doing something right, because Misha stiffens, makes an abortive little shout, and spills warm and fragrant between them. Jared looks up, shaking sweaty bangs out of his eyes, and loses himself for long moments in the appealing expression of blissed-out wonder on his lover’s face. _His lover_. And that realisation is so powerful, so all-consuming, so world-shattering that he only gets in two more quick, hard, necessary-as-breathing thrusts before he’s coming, hard, in Misha’s ass.

“In,” Misha says, and Jared blinks stupidly through the haze of a strange afterglow. “In,” Misha repeats, more forcefully. “Deep. _Now._.”

So Jared pushes in obediently deep. It’s more difficult than he expects, as if his dick has suddenly—

_Oh._

“It’s okay,” Misha says, soothing him with hands and voice. “That can happen sometimes. Usually the knot forms and _then_ you come, but they are technically separate processes, so…” He shrugs. Winces a little. 

Jared can feel it now, the prickle-rush of extra blood racing to fill up and expand his knot. The peculiar discomfort as it tests the tight grip of Misha’s ass, waiting to see which will give. When his knot’s completely inflated, he’s replete with this feeling of _triumph_ like he’s achieved something amazing. He looks down at Misha, confused and elated.

“Hi,” Misha says, reaching up to stroke Jared’s cheek. He giggles. “You really are the big Alpha on campus, huh?” He rolls his hips up, just enough to change where the pressure’s most intense, making Jared’s eyelids slide down to half-mast and a sort-of-purr try to climb up out of his throat. 

“How are you so perfect?” Jared blurts.

Misha stops giggling and just stares for several long moments. Then he shrugs, suddenly bashful. “You have chemical help to think so. But thank you.” His grin turns wicked, showing all kinds of teeth and highlighting the devious twinkle in his blue eyes. “ Think you can get me off again before we manage to untie?”

Jared has no idea. But it’s going to be fun to find out.

It’s not the first time he’s woken up beside Misha, but he’s pretty sure it’s the best. There’s a sort of warm contentment buzzing through him, making it impossible not to smile stupidly at the man still sleeping in his arms, snoring slightly.

So beautiful.

He wants to reach out and stroke that stubble, but he’s worried that might wake Misha. So he just lazes there for a long time, watching, remembering. Daydreaming.

Somehow, the thought that life cannot possibly get better than this is not disappointing, because right now Jared feels sure that he could bask in this feeling forever. That life with Misha will always feel like this. How could it not? It’s _Misha_.

 _They say love addles the brain_ , Jared thinks. _My brain is addled. Does that mean it’s love?_

He toys with that notion for at least two minutes before dismissing it as a logical fallacy.

And then life actually _does_ get better, because Misha opens his eyes on the third attempt and _smiles_ at him.

“Good, uh, morning,” Jared says, because he’s not actually sure how much time has passed.

“I need to pee,” Misha says. His voice is all rumbly and sleep-gruff and it’s just about the best sound ever in the history of the universe.

Jared beams.

Misha laughs and pokes him in the chest. “How about you go make us some coffee, you gloriously overgrown weirdo?”

Jared decides he can get behind that plan. After a quick kiss, anyway.

He’s only briefly distracted from his all-important caffeine mission by the sight of Misha’s naked ass as it heads for the bathroom.

 _Wow, Padalecki, you’ve got it bad,_ he thinks, and can’t bring himself to mind.

Kurt’s presence is felt again whens a local newspaper comes sniffing around for a story about an illicit relationship between a professor and his student. The university’s publicity department intervenes to feed the reporter a fluff piece about the only Alpha student they’ve ever had. It isn’t that bad, really. Jared can’t say he’s a fan of all the ‘natural, unposed’ photographs he has to pose for: him studying in his room; strolling around campus; chatting with clusters of diverse, carefully-chosen photogenic ‘friends’ on the Miller Building stairs; surrounded by books in the library. But the reporter is young and chatty, and Jared’s able to relax a bit, talk like a human being, and absorb the occasional subtle input from the university publicity person about whether he should actually be saying what he’s thinking of saying.

“I guess no one ever told me that Alphas couldn’t be bookish,” he says, and that becomes one of the pulled-out quotes in little boxes in the article.

He’s asked what he wants to do after he graduates. Which makes him pause. “Possibly grad school, I guess. Somewhere new. I’d like to see a bit more of this great nation. But at some stage I definitely want to upgrade from a job to a career. I’m just not sure yet what that might be.”

“There are a lot of high-flying Alphas in the business world,” the reporter suggests.

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s me.” He shrugs. “And I’d like to build a home some day. Maybe in the woods somewhere. Be part of small-town life again.”

“Is there someone with you, in this vision of your future?”

Jared smiles what he hopes is a mysterious smile. “Yeah, there is. Definitely. And a couple of dogs. Maybe a parrot.”

“And I think that’s about all we have time for,” puts in the publicity rep. “I believe Jared has a class to get to, and it’s time for your tour of the campus…”

Jared’s upcoming class is actually really boring—it’s a history of science class where the professor seems not to understand the science he’s talking about, no matter how well he seems to know the history—but Jared’s so grateful for it today that he runs all the way to the lecture hall.

 _Interviews_. Yeah, cross those off the list of things he hopes his future career will require him to do.

Kurt shows up for Thanksgiving dinner. No one’s exactly pleased to see him, but Richard makes an effort to be jovial (even if Robert hasn’t toned down the glare). Kurt’s with a woman, Loretta, who nudges him forward to apologise, first to Misha (who offers forgiveness along with a barely-there hug and a couple of air kisses) and then to Jared. Jared’s anger has faded, but a sense of wariness and distrust still seethes in his stomach. (He is, he notices, now very nearly Kurt’s height, and he finds that an oddly satisfying realisation.) There’s something a little smug in him too, he finds, when he shakes Kurt’s hand. Something naughty and wrong and _neener-neener_ , as if some animal part of him believes that the fact he’s recently had his dick in Misha proves he’s the better Alpha. He kind of resents Kurt for making him feel that way.

After a period of awkward pre-dinner mingling, the others make space for Kurt and his new girlfriend at the table, subtly placing them as far from Misha and Jared as possible. Jared fights conflicting urges to give Kurt nothing he can tell tales about and to demonstrate his claim over Misha right where the bastard can see it. He wants to rub it in Kurt’s face that the best man won, though the very fact he can think about his relationship with Misha in those terms disturbs him. He’d like to go out for a run, get rid of some of this nervous energy, but it’s _Thanksgiving_. So he fidgets his way through the thankfulness ritual, but stays put.

“I’m thankful for good friends and chosen family,” he says, when it’s his turn, looking from Misha to Julie to Richard to Jensen and Katie, and picturing Genevieve there too though she’s gone home with her Frenchman to her family in Sun Valley, Idaho. Misha’s hand tightens reassuringly around his.

“I’m grateful for second chances,” Kurt pipes up in due course, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “They may be undeserved, but they’re appreciated.” An awkward pause. He clears his throat, and his tone lightens. “So whoever keeps sending the embarrassing singing telegrams to crash my board meetings can stop now.”

Jared can’t _quite_ contain his snicker. Misha looks at him sharply, so Jared attempts to school his features into an impression of confused innocence. Which is kinda difficult when he’s imagining the look on Kurt’s face as the man in the clown suit burst into his soulful rendition of “I started a joke, which started the whole world crying…”

In bed that night, after the evening wraps up and their friends are sent home with full bellies and good cheer, he sucks the claim mark that much deeper into Misha’s upper arm. It hurts, he knows, and there’s no kick of pleasure to go with it like there would be if it was _that_ spot on his neck. But that kind of mark is too hard to hide, and almost impossible to explain away as a legitimate injury, so… 

“That’ll do,” Misha growls, elbowing him. “Now turn around, and let’s practice the noble sport of synchronised sucking.”

“You have the best ideas,” Jared praises, against his skin. He thinks it kinda sounds like _I love you._

“You too,” Misha says, and applies a loud kiss to the tip of Jared’s nose.

**Epilogue:**

Misha tries to keep his life and mind (if not his office) uncluttered. Cliché has no place in either. In fact, the cliché that someone else might use on this occasion— _one of the proudest days of my life_ —he actually finds rather depressing. The _implications_!

But he won’t deny that watching Jared go through the whole hand-shaking, diploma-accepting, mortar-board-cap-tossing rigmarole brings him joy. And he especially won’t deny that kissing him in the dizzying aftermath of so much emotion, so many family reunions, so much _change_ , is wonderful. Here they are, in public, surrounded by so many of those who were, minutes ago, Jared’s fellow graduands, sharing a kiss. It’s not even a particularly passionate or obscene kiss, but it definitely gains an edge from the fact they haven’t been _allowed_ to kiss in public until now.

“I’m proud of you,” Misha says afterwards, leaning back a little to play his favourite silly game of trying to determine what colour to call Jared’s eyes.

“I’m—I guess I’m proud of me too. Huh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Also kinda… feel as if the rug’s been pulled out from under me. Or like I’ve forgotten to do something important and I can’t remember what.”

Misha shrugs. He remembers well enough how that feels. Gaining his PhD was especially… overwhelming. “It’s a big upheaval. You gonna be okay?”

The enormous Jared grin comes out, and he bounces on his toes. “Hell, yeah. I just got a _degree_. I am _excellent_. Pizza and ice cream!”

“Sounds good,” Misha allows. He rubs his neck and shoots Jared a significant look. “And maybe after...”

Jared goes stock still. Then he does a rather good impression of Homer Simpson drooling, so that Misha has to slap his shoulder before he attracts undue attention.

“Come on, Jay. Let’s get out of here.”

Jared salutes, and they head away as quickly as they can given that Jared is stopped by someone or other for a hug approximately every three paces. Jensen is last, wearing his uniform from the physical therapy clinic and looking as if he’s run all the way here. Jared laughs and sweeps him off his feet and into a hug that circles round and round, reminding Misha just how much his Alpha has bulked up since he was a freshman. Not that he was ever _small_.

“Congrats, man,” Jensen says, when Jared condescends to put him down. “You did awesome.”

Jared just offers his neck, like he can’t think of the right words and trusts Jensen enough to let his scent do the talking. Jensen accepts, and the hug lengthens from friendly into intimate while he sniffs. Misha is helpless to keep from taking a step closer; it helps. Intellectually he knows he has no cause for jealousy, but instincts are something else.

Jensen and Jared part, and then Jared takes Misha’s hand.

“We’re gonna go eat,” Misha says. “You want to come along?”

“Wish I could,” Jensen says. “Gotta get back. Clients to see, mobility to save. We'll catch up soon, though. Well done, Jared. Seriously.” They high-five, and then Jensen’s jogging away, weaving between clumps of students and camera-clutching parents and bored little siblings.

“That was cool,” Jared says. “Only Genevieve’s missing.”

 _Not only Genevieve,_ Misha thinks but doesn’t say. “We’ll Skype her later. But let’s remember to look up the time difference first, okay?”

Jared snorts. “Yeah, that’d probably be wise.”

Misha’s arranged to have Mark S meet them at the restaurant. (Making overtures to Jared’s family, he’s decided, would strain even Jared’s love of surprises, and attempting to force reconciliations strikes him as incredibly dickish. But he’s willing to help folks reconnect if they ask.)

Mark’s looking good, somehow perfectly laid back and comfortable in his impeccable three-piece suit. He rises when he sees them, just in time to have Jared careen into him for a hug that, from the outside, probably resembles attempted murder. Except for the part where they’re both laughing and slapping each other’s backs.

“You did good, kid,” Mark says. “Who’d have thought it?”

“If you try to ruffle my hair, there will be bloodshed.”

Mark only laughs louder, then detaches to flop back into his chair. “So, the steak? I’m thinking the steak.” He looks up. “My shout,” he adds easily.

Jared visibly takes a moment to translate this, then smiles and relaxes. Misha knows it’s a sore spot with him, that he still works retail and doesn’t have some big salaried position lined up yet. “Okay. Steak sounds good.”

Misha signals to say he’s still perusing the menu.

“You old enough to drink yet, Jared?”

“Not until next month.”

“Ah. Well, then, I’ll stick to the apple juice too, I think.” He leans back in his chair, and the waitress magically appears in that way they have to take their orders, just as Misha makes his decision on the all-important chicken versus lamb issue.

It rains for a week around New Year, including on moving day, but happily not until after they’ve finished shifting all Jared’s stuff.

Jared moving in seems like it _ought_ to be a big deal. Instead, it just feels as if things are finally falling into place. The timing’s right, Jensen’s been making noises for a while now about wanting his old friend/current girlfriend (future wife, if Misha doesn’t miss his guess) Danneel to move in with him. Which, frankly, just made it that much easier for Misha to give in to the urge he’s been feeling for _years_ now to bring all Jared’s things home, make a huge comfy nest for the two of them, and keep his enormous lover from roaming ever again. 

Not that he’s possessive or anything.

He is chill. Totally chill.

He is curled up, in fact, barefoot in his favourite armchair. He’s happily wading through student drivel, er, research papers when Jared gets home from his inconvenient half-shift at work, soggy and pink-cheeked and bedraggled from the rain. 

Misha thinks he’s beautiful. 

He always has, but these days he also knows how very worthwhile Jared is as a person and not just an object of aesthetic appreciation.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate the aesthetics, he thinks, rubbing absently at the puffy, bruised skin of the renewed Claim mark on his neck. But he’s come to know Jared, and--unlike most people Misha’s met--knowing him more has only led to liking him better.

He sets the papers aside, gets up, pads across the thick carpet to greet his lover with a quick kiss. Jared’s clothes are damp to the touch, there’s a drop of water making its slow way down his forehead, and that hard-to-define scent of wet fabric clings to him.

“Mmm,” Jared says, mouthing at Misha’s adam’s apple, then at _that_ spot further back and to the right. “This has been driving me crazy. It’s like this erogenous zone I never knew I had, because it’s not on me, it’s on you. Feel like I could come just from touching you here.” He kisses, nibbles, sniffs.

“Do it again, then. No need to keep it small.”

“No turtlenecks tomorrow?” He toys with the collar of Misha’s button-down.

“No turtlenecks. No scarves. No cravats. Not even a careful application of a suitable press-powder foundation.”

Jared chuckles against his neck. “Good answer. We should probably—” And then he’s walking Misha backwards towards the couch. They collapse together, Misha on his butt, Jared falling down to kneel between his spread legs.

When he pictures this—the hugely important, symbolic act they’d aped for so long with the mark on his arm—Misha always imagines a sexual scene, a context of writhing, sweating bodies, a soundtrack of passionate pleas and inarticulate groanings. Pretty much what they did the night Jared officially graduated, and a lot of nights since. But he’s never imagined it could also be a tender, romantic act instead of just an instinctive marking during claiming sex. He’s never imagined that either of them would be dripping with rain water and cuddled on the couch, a long way from out of their minds with lust and pheromones.

He's never imagined it would feel quite this good, all on its own.

It’s painful, yes. But there’s pleasure here too, and plenty of it. The glands beneath Jared’s mouth tingle as they over-produce scent to please him, to feed him, and beyond that, well, it’s always been an acutely sensitive spot. When Jared periodically pauses to flick his tongue repeatedly over the abused skin, it’s all Misha can do not to purr. He can’t hold still, needs the anchor of his Alpha’s hands on his hips to keep him conveniently in place. The erection tenting his pants is unimportant next to Jared’s mouth on him, Jared bruising his claim in deep, and the glorious, glorious growl that vibrates through his chest.

When the pleasure plateaus, Misha’s left with a burning sensation that has him squirming. Jared makes some soothing noises, but soon pulls away to blow softly on his handiwork. Misha shivers as the cool air hits his skin. 

The silence between them is quiet and contemplative. Jared stares, transfixed, and Misha resists the urge to splay himself out for the taking and just lets Jared look his fill. After a long moment, Jared sits back on his heels and offers Misha a small smile. “I think we've got this _down_."

Misha raises a hand to touch the mark, winces. “Absolutely. Bravo.”

“I hope it never goes away.”

Misha doesn’t protest that. He totally groks that sentiment. “How about you go and have a nice hot shower? And I’ll get started on--”

“Nope, you’re coming too,” Jared says, pulling Misha to his feet. “Cleanliness is _very_ important to me,” he adds with an air of great earnestness, which he promptly ruins with a leer.

Misha follows him to the bathroom, fingertips absently brushing over the mark on his neck. He has no idea how he got this lucky. But, he thinks, as he pins Jared to the wall by the towel rack, it’s a mystery he’s willing to live with.

***END***

**ETA:** The lovely [](http://lifelesslyndsey.livejournal.com/profile)  
[lifelesslyndsey](http://lifelesslyndsey.livejournal.com/) sent me unsolicited additional art for this story. Its arrival cheered me up immensely during a hospital stay. Isn't it beautiful?

[ ](http://penguinz.nfshost.com/15xcb4.jpg)


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